


A More Vicious Motivator

by ShezzasCompanion



Series: A More Vicious Motivator [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Mycroft, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Kidnapping, Manipulation, Mary works for Jim, Minor Character Death, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recreational Drug Use, Revenge, Torture, Villian Mary, platonic johnlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-09 23:35:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 37
Words: 58,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3268499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShezzasCompanion/pseuds/ShezzasCompanion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post- Reichenbach. After being rescued from Serbia, Sherlock attempts to reunite with those he left behind after his fall, however things don't go as he expected. In fact everything just seems off from the start. Distrust and ill feelings that weren't there before are now making themselves known and he has no idea what has caused this change in the people that so fiercely defended him. Now Sherlock Holmes is walking a thin line, one that is one wrong move from snapping, leaving him completely and utterly alone</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hindsight

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a headcanon that was sent to me by one of my friends on tumblr, [Addigni](http://Addigni.tumblr.com), and I liked the idea so I have decided to run with it.

No one had been looking for him, Sherlock knew that. Moran had made that painfully clear as his face loomed over his in the early days of his captivity. Sebastian’s face looming above his, the evil and deranged smile playing across his lips as he reminded the detective no one cared enough about him any more to actually notice his disappearance. In hindsight, much had changed in the time that Sherlock had been off sneaking in and out of various countries as he attempted to dismantle the extensive web that Moriarty had constructed during his reign as Consulting Criminal. The criminal web had turned out to be more expansive than had anticipated and it took more time that Mycroft or anyone had original planned out, it seemed that Moriarty had been more prepared than Sherlock had given him credit for, and that had become rather apparent now. There were still agents in London when he left for Eastern Europe and Asia, and the plan was to take them out when he returned. Unbeknownst to him as soon as they knew he had left the country, they had set to work. Reichenbach was nothing more than the beginning, getting Sherlock to fake his death was just step one. Step two had begun as soon as the web in London knew he was gone with no chance of returning anytime in the near future.

Moriarty’s undercover agents moved out slowly, trickling into post Sherlock Holmes era of London, feeding off their doubt and rejoiced in the fact most of the citizens had lost their faith in the once great detective. However, the general population was not their main target. There where the few people who had unwavering devotion and loyalty to the world’s only consulting detective: Molly Hooper, John Watson, and Gregory Lestrade. The trio refused to believe anything that was said about Sherlock, the negativity, the names, the news stories that were coming out in the tabloids as the media made millions on the man’s death. Their plan was to plant these seeds of doubt in their minds and make them grow, slowly, so they had no clue they were being manipulated, so they had no idea they were playing right into the hands of the World’s only and now dead Consulting Criminal.

These “Rats” had presented themselves as neighbors, colleagues, causal friends and acquaintances, ready to infiltrated the small group of people who had the upmost faith for the detective and slowly destroy it. They were going to slowly burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes, just like their boss had planned. This elaborate plan, however, was not being run from the grave. The web had a new leader, one that no law-enforcement agency knew about. Sebastian Moran was James Moriarty’s right hand man on the clock and more than that off. At first it was just Moran Jim had been interested it, and it wasn’t until the Psychopath had done his research on the man he had recruited for his own interests and discover that he had once been a Colonel in the military then did Sebastian secure his position as Moriarty’s right hand man. He had aided the web in its expansion, standing by as deals were made and as his companion smooth talked his way into a deal, and for a while things were looking up for Sebastian. Until Sherlock Holmes walked into the Picture. The genius detective soon became Jim’s obsession, all because Jim could play with him, toy with his mind and watch him dance, and for eighteen months that was wonderful, until that faithful day on top of Bart’s. Sebastian blamed Sherlock for Jim’s death and he fully planned on getting his revenge on the younger man. He was going to yank the world out from under his feet and he would be standing over watching and laughing all the way until the brunet knew the pain he had put the Colonel through.

Moran had waited a few days until he had conformation one of the other web members in India had seen Sherlock touch ground before he gave out the orders for the others to disperse, all with their own file on Sherlock. Each envelope contained the information that had been gained during Moriarty’s time in MI-6 custody as well as other important information gathered from people who had the pleasure of crossing paths with the man, though, those people no longer had to worry about crossing paths with Sherlock Holmes Ever again, because no one was looking for him, and if Sebastian Moran had his way, no one would see the World’s Only consulting detective ever again.  


	2. The beginning of the End

Things were not they way Sherlock had hoped they were when he had returned. Much had changed with in London and himself. He no longer felt like the same man he was when he left. He felt more jaded, more isolated, more towards his breaking point. The last leg of dismantling the web found him in Serbia, the most protected and most difficult section to find, not to mention the most violent, and that was something he had found out first hand. The compound was located in the dense forest and heavily guarded. He had managed to sneak in when a few of the guards had their backs turned, however he had underestimated how long it would take for him to discover the head of the Serbian operation. He had slipped up as he made his way through the halls and had been spotted. Sherlock bolted for the forest, however the guards were hot on his tail with rifles in hand and a helicopter in the sky, with no doubt a heat seeking camera. Thirty minutes into the chase, he was captured and subsequently taken back to the compound for questioning. It started out like one of those espionage movies where the spy is taken into some dark and dingy room with a metal table, a single chair, and a low hanging lamp but it had progressed into something much more painful. The questioning in their interrogation room seemed to go on for hours and it just may have, there was no windows and no clock that allowed him to tell time. It would have driven anyone crazy, it would have driven him crazy if he had not been so determined to keep his head about him and talk his way out of this relatively sticky situation

 

However his captives were not pleased with his answers and after what seemed like days, it honestly could have been that long, Sherlock had been relocated to a different room, this one darker than the last, the only light source coming from a torch on the back wall. The only window was located on the same wall, however it was caked with dirt and secured with bars illuminating the chance of escape. not to mention the ability to tell time. The detective fought when it became relatively clear their intentions as one of the operatives held him still as another one began to shackle his arms to the long taught chains that extended from the walls. The space was soon filled with the sound of rattling metal as and shouts that came out in both English and Serbian as he fought against his binds. The rusty metal cutting into his skin, making them raw and angry as he attempted to get away. His attempts were futile and ended with blood running down his arms, dripping down onto the floor, his shoulders ached from being held out at such a strange angle for such a long time. and the fact he had been standing was killing his knees and lower back. His captors had left him alone, perhaps they thought the silence would loosen him up, maybe they thought they silence would break him and they could learn all they wanted from him. but they were wrong. He had been in these situations before, of course they didn’t all end like this, it happened in his line of work, but this was as bad as it had gotten.

 

The deafening silence was broken some time later as a few of the agents filed in, a quirk in their lips as they looked at him, but he didn’t open his lips, not even to make deductions, instead he just   stood there, staring back at them daring them to make the move, daring them to break him.  It was a mistake he would come to regret, like most other things in his life. Sherlock glared daggers at the man standing right in front of him. The man was tall, though not much taller than he was, his muscles were well defined, and he stood straight with military precision. He must have been the head of the operation or up in the high ranks.

“Why did you attempt to break in here?” The question was met by silence and the sound of metal clanging as Sherlock shifted his weight. The room grew quiet once more, only not as deafening as the faint sounds of breathing met his ears. The detective lowered his gaze from the bald man in front of him as he shifted the pipe in his hand. Seconds later, the metal connected with his side, pain exploded through his body and air was expelled from his lungs with a whoosh.

“ANSWER MY QUESTION!” But no answer came and another blow rained down on him, in the same place as before, the pain intensified and he swore he could see stars in his vision. Nevertheless, he remained tight lipped about his intentions. The brunet had not come all this way for this mission to blow up in his face. Not when he had people he cared about to protect. This continued until he was certain his ribs on his right side were badly bruised, cracked, or broken. Breathing hurt and he was certainly wheezing as the door shut behind the men as they left. The lantern on the wall was dying, leaving him in growing darkness.

He woke to a sharp pain as someone slapped him awake, Sherlock jerked his head up to see the Serbian who had taken the pipe to his ribs standing before him again with a smirk on his lips again.

“Ready to talk now?” This time he wasn’t even given a chance to answer as something connected with is left side now, pain radiating through his body as something cracked, he could feel it, the way the bone moved as it threatened to break with the beating. Whimpers and gasps escaped his lips as he tried to stay quiet though it was providing to be difficult with cracked ribs.

The days began to run together as they would come in and ask the same questions only to be met with silence before the sound of metal hitting skin echoed through the room as they tried to beat him into submission. When the piped was deemed ineffective, they moved to something else, a whip. The leather whistled through the air, slicing through the air, tearing his skin as it made contact. The blood soaking into his shredding shirt, before that was viciously torn from his body, marks from where the fabric had resist stood out against his pale skin. They had given him what would be the minimal to survive on, enough to keep his body working, but not enough to stop himself from slowly wearing away. For the most part, he was becoming disoriented, and the voices in his head where no longer helping.

Soon they were depriving him of sleep, and they time was smashing together, it was leaving him exhausted, his body was bloody and achy, his legs were having problems holding him up and he was certain there was going to be damage to the tissue in his shoulders, and the skin on his back was going to turn into a network of thick, ugly scars. He was wearing away, getting so close to buckling so he could sleep his sore joints could rest. The day he was going to buckle, his “interrogator” had brought a guest, one with a very distinct voice, one that he had grown up with. Sherlock’s body nearly sagged with relief at the thought Mycroft was there, it could have been a hallucination for all he knew, but it was a damn good one, especially if it meant that this was over.

This time, questions weren’t even asked until after the beating started, the metal pipe had connected with his side several times before he began to ask questions. It took a while for his sleep deprived mind to register that Mycroft was not intervening, instead he was sitting in the chair, that wasn’t exactly front and center, and it was far enough away that no blood, spit, or sweat landed on him. It was the first time in he didn’t know how long he paid attention to his assailant.

“You broke in here for a reason” his torturer replied as he walked in front of him, pipe hanging limply at his side as if he was trying to provide some show for their guest. Sherlock looked up through his long straggly hair to see if the man really was there or if his mind was playing tricks on him.

“Just tell us why and you can sleep. Remember sleep?” The Serbian asked as he moved to draw the pipe back to make another blow to his discolored side. Sherlock began to mumble deductions, his eyes closed as he tried to focus. His lips were dry and cracked, causing pain as he talked, but he wanted out of there.  The man stopped, the pipe falling to his side as a hand found it’s way into Sherlock’s hair.

“What?” he asked as he leaned in to hear him better.

“Well?” The man had in the chair had chimed in

Sherlock’s head dropped as it was released, his chin resting against his chest, the sound of confused shuffling met his ears as if the Serbian had no idea how he had come to his conclusions.

“He said that I use to be in the Navy, and I had an unhappy love affair while I was there.”

Sherlock took that as his cue to continue, the man was genuinely surprised and as long as he kept the pipe from breaking any more blood vessels in his side, he would be truly happy.

“What else is he saying?”

“That the electricity isn’t working in my bathroom and that my wife is sleeping with our neighbor!” That had certainly grabbed the Serbian’s attention as his hand wound itself in his unruly hair, yanking his head up quickly, the grasp the operative had on his hair had pulled him up enough that his feet were under his body again and he wasn’t barely keeping himself up by his screaming arms.

“And?” The man’s breath was warm against the side of his face and Sherlock shifted his eyes to the side to see the man’s face, anger and rage just below the surface.

“It’s the coffin Maker.” Sherlock had rasped out “A-and if you go now, you’ll catch them.” The hold on his head was gone, quicker than a rubber band breaking after being out in the cold. The operative was making quick work of the room, clearing it in no more than five strides before throwing the pipe in the corner as he yanked open the door, shouting orders at whoever was there. As soon as the door slammed shut, Sherlock’s body sagged in relief and it wasn’t long until the sound of the chair being dragged across the floor married his ears. Another hand had found it’s way into his hair, only this time, it wasn’t as harsh as the one’s before.

“I believe your job, here is done, brother mine” Mycroft stated before letting go of his hair. All Sherlock could do was smile, his dry lips stretching across his face at the thought he was finally leaving this dreaded place, He was heading back to London to be with the people that had become his friends. With Moriarty now gone he could try and slip back into his old life once again.

Sherlock fell against Mycroft’s arm as the shackles were undone, his legs unable to hold him up, his back and shoulders screaming as he was released, the moving of the skin, making it all uncomfortable, But that didn’t make a difference in his current state, he was leaving, going back to London where he belonged and where he hoped he could slip back into his life, like nothing had happened.


	3. The Great Escape

Everything was moving in a blur as he moved, his back felt as if it was on fire and the newly introduced fabric was only making it worse. The course fibers of the coat rubbing against the rips in his skin, catching and tugging making him groan as they moved down the hall. Sherlock’s body was screaming at him to sleep, that he was fine now, that the arm around his waist was indeed not a figment of his imagination and the coat he was wearing smelled too much like Mycroft for it to be anything but him. However he refused to give in to the temptation of rest and a reprieve of the aches in his body. He wanted to get out of there on his own volition and he wanted to see something other than the filthy concrete walls before he let his transport win.

Sherlock’s breath hitched as the grip around his waist increased and he sunk his teeth into his cracked lip to prevent himself from screaming out as Mycroft moved swiftly, more swiftly then Sherlock could have thought possible for a man of his size and devotion to cake.

“Shush” Mycroft whispered into his ear as the sound of running and yelling met his ears, Sherlock lifted his head a fraction to see a handful of the compounds guards rushing by. Apparently their absence was noticed or perhaps they had finally noticed the guard that was stationed in front of his cell had been knocked out. Sherlock threw Mycroft what he hoped was a withering look but it was probably nothing more than a painful grimace. As the footfalls and shouting died away, they began to move, quicker this time. Groan and grunts escaping Sherlock as the pain began to radiate down his legs from his back. His knees protested their sudden use and were giving out when he tried to put his weight on them, causing him to slip and nearly fall, causing his brother to stumble with him.

Much to his relief, Mycroft bit his tongue as they moved through the maze of the compound, hiding in the shadows to avoid detection, but it was becoming harder for Sherlock to stay awake, the adrenaline slowly draining his body of the energy it had been storing. Sherlock hung his head slightly as they stowed away in an alcove, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to breathe to the best of his ribs capability. His grimy shaggy hair hanging in his face as he placed his weight on the wall. The alarms had long been sounding and they made his ears ring when he acknowledged their presence, but it made it harder to hear when the men were coming. He was half tempted to tell Mycroft to leave him there and go back to London without him. He was slowing them down, but before his lips could form the words he was looking for, his arm was around Mycroft’s neck and the other man’s arm was around his waist, pulling him to his feet before moving out into the hallway. The dirty walls were bathed in red light and the sound was still deafening, but it was enough to push him forward, considering the main door was in sight. He had seen this happen in movies however. The captive is nearly to the door and they are cut off and then a nearly impossible fight scene ensures with everyone but the beaten and battered person as the winner that would be the situation in his case. Mycroft had his hand on the door, shoving it open as Sherlock turned slightly to see a group of men coming their way.

“M-My…” He whispered as the door swung open, Sherlock toppling to the ground as the door slammed shut before the sound of metal scrapping metal met his ears followed by a loud bang as something hit the metal surface. However, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to move, the muscles and joints in his arms protested and his chest ached from his impact to the ground. His legs refused to work for him as well and any form of bending was going to set his back ablaze with pain. Instead he laid there, listening to the sound of men banging on the door as someone above him spoke, but at least he was out of the compound and he had managed to get out alive.

Sherlock could feel a set of hands grabbing him under his arms, pulling him to his feet as the sound of helicopter blades slicing through the air before he could feel the wind on his face. He must have been a sight for Mycroft’s men, he thought as someone grabbed him by his feet as they moved him towards the chopper.

“Lay him on his side” Mycroft ordered as he was gently laid across the seats, headphones placed on his ears to protect him from the sound. The seats aren’t particularly soft, but they are better than standing and it is a welcome relief. Sherlock can’t bring himself to open his eyes now, not as the chopper begins to ascend into the air, the adrenaline from running is leaving his body and the crash is hitting him quickly and he knows there is no fighting it. Instead he welcomes it and the relief it brings from the pain.

 

* * *

 

Voices over head was the first thing that registered in Sherlock’s mind before he felt the distinctive stings of IV’s in his arm. The next thing to register was the scent of antiseptics and the sound of monitors. Slowly he opened his eyes to blinding white light before his eyes adjusted. It was a small hospital like room, complete with surgical equipment, hospital grade monitors, and supplies.

“Good to see you are awake Mr. Holmes” One of the voices overhead stated and he looked in their direction. “We will have you patched up in no time” Sherlock nodded as he looked up at the doctor who stood overhead, his hair a graying blond, that reminded him so much of John.

“J-John…” He mumbled as he felt something being pushed into his IV before the world grew dark once more.

_It was a relatively quiet night with the TV on in the corner as John sat at his laptop typing away at his blog, writing up a more ‘Romantic’ version of their latest case. Sherlock stood in the kitchen, dishing out the food they had ordered from the Thai place down the street, the tea kettle he had put on was beginning to whistle as he closed the cartons. Their respective mugs out on the counter. Sherlock poured the hot water over the tea, allowing it to steep as he carried the plates out to the desk, setting one down across from John, and he was rewarded with a smile. He retreated back into the kitchen, removing the tea bags from the mugs, placing John’s down next to his plate. Sherlock slid into the seat across from his blogger, signing into his laptop as he did so. Comfortable silence filled the space as they both typed away, the occasional sound of forks clanging against their plates as they ate._

_“What do you think this blog entry should be called?” John asked him, looking over the lid of his laptop at Sherlock._

_“Whatever you deem appropriate” Sherlock replied, his eyes scanning over the emails he had before promptly deleting everything he found boring, which if he was honest, was most of them._

_“Sherlock you don’t approve of any of the titles I have so far.”_

_“I don’t approve of your typing methods either, but that hasn’t stopped you.” John threw him a withering look and Sherlock smirked as he looked at his friend._

_“There is nothing wrong with the way I type, the only thing that is wrong is the fact you have fingers in the Vegetable crisper!”_

* * *

 

It had been nearly three years since John Watson had watched Sherlock jump off the top of the Pathology building of Bart’s hospital, and so much had changed since then. He was now the main Doctor for the clinic he worked at, he had a lovely girlfriend that he had every intention of proposing to in the near future . As soon as he the funeral had been planned and before the grass had so much as a chance to begin go to regrow around the dig marks over Sherlock’s casket, he had moved out of Baker Street and into a flat closer to the clinic he had applied to work at to keep him busy. It was almost like coming back from Afghanistan all over again, but this time the pain was no longer in his shoulder, it was in his chest. This Sherlock sized gap was just there, and there was nothing that could fill it.

The Doctor struggled to keep himself afloat as he adjusted to this new, slower, lifestyle. One that involved treating patients that had dry coughs, the mumps, and other common ailments. The first year was the hardest, dealing with the people who called Sherlock a fake and a freak to his face was overwhelming and it got him in trouble more than once as he defended the dead man. People at work avoid him, people he knew from working cases did too, it was if they all thought that the Sherlock Moriarty had presented the world was the real Sherlock, but John knew differently.

Things began to change when the flat next to John was rented out. The Doctor met him one evening as he was getting ready to go out to the bar with Greg. The bloke was in his late twenties, early thirties, tall and slim with rust colored hair and chocolate eyes.

“Hello.” The man greeted John as he had his back turned as he made sure the door was locked.

“Oh, Hello.” John replied as he looked at the man across the hall from him, he hadn’t been that social with anyone and he had never been fond of making new friends, but this kid seemed nice enough. “New neighbor?”

“Yeah, just moved in this week, nice place this is huh?”

“Yeah, It is a nice place I guess, I’ve only been here a few months myself.”

“That’s nice…”

“My Name’s John.”

“That’s nice John, I’m Tim.”

“Well, I’ll be seeing you around Tim.” At first, John had no intentions of seeing Tim again until he had to, which if he timed it right, would have been never. But that wasn’t the case. Tim always seemed to pop up while John was collecting his mail from his box in the lobby or when he was coming in from work. At first they shared monosyllable conversations filled with tension at the fact John didn’t want to get to know this person. Though John’s attitude seemed to do little to detour his neighbor.

“I use to be out on the street, did drugs for a long time before I decided it was time to clean up my act.” Tim said one evening as they rode the elevator together a few weeks after the younger man had moved in.

“Oh?” John asked, he had finally gotten use to the fact that Tim’s presence, no matter how annoying it was, was there to stay and he was taking that in stride.

“Yeah, I use to work two jobs just to be able to afford the drugs, and for a while it was okay, I could afford it you know? But it just got more expensive, more than I could afford and I began to steal from my jobs.” John nodded as he listened, turning his attention to Tim as they stepped out on their floor.  “I got caught one day and they fired me, I gave them back the money so they wouldn’t call the police, but that was the day I knew I had a problem, it took a little bit, but I got the courage to go see a Substance abuse counselor started to get my life turned around.”

John was mildly impressed to say the least that the person he was talking to was trying to make something of their life, and that was pretty damn good. Drugs were hard to quit, he had seen that in Harry when she tried to become sober.

Discussions on Tim’s progress slowly became the topic of their evenings and the fact that Tim had overcome such a huge obstacle in his life had given John the motivation to start to completely move on from his. He knew Sherlock was dead, he had seen him jump and there was no way he was coming back. People didn’t come back from the dead that was only in the movies and those usually ended with the town becoming overrun by the living dead. 

The first time John had the guts to ask out Mary Morstan, the new receptionist at the clinic he worked at, was a few days after the anniversary of Sherlock’s fall. The papers had run such a big story to commemorate the event, repeating the same things that had been said the year before, only with a few word changes:

 LIFE AFTER SHERLOCK HOLMES, HOW LONDON IS COPING A YEAR AFTER THE SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS.

No one brought it up to John, knowing it was a sensitive subject, not even Greg brought up Sherlock on their pub days, but the night after his date with Mary, Tim did.

“Did you see that article about that Sherlock bloke?” Tim had asked as John checked his mail, he looked up at this neighbor, but he didn’t say anything before returning back to sorting his mail.

“Do you think what they said about his is true? That he was a fake Genius? Or do you think he was genuine?”

“He was genuine.” John remarked as he started to head towards the lift, Tim at his heels.

“Rumor had it he was a drug addict too.”

“He had his issues with substances.”

“Someone said he was still using up until the day he jumped.” That made John freeze and look up at Tim. Had Sherlock really been using up until the day he jumped? Was that the possible reason he had? Was it a hallucination that had gone wrong and Sherlock didn’t know what was fantasy from reality? Had all of this pain that John had been accumulating in his chest for the last 12 months be all because his flat mate couldn’t resist the rush?

“I have to go.” John muttered as he walked away from his neighbor, that night was the first time in months, he had cried himself to sleep.


	4. So we meet again

That comment from Tim was the only thing John needed before he began to question things about that day: the fake call about Mrs. Hudson, the fact Sherlock had been on the roof, the fact that Sherlock had refused his help in the first place and had John himself watch as he plummeted to the ground. John felt the lower he had in months at that fact, for the first time since he had gotten the job, John called in sick, promising to be in the next day and reassured Mary that it was really nothing. He tried to busy himself by cleaning up the flat, but everything seemed to remind him of the genius and the fact that he may have been using while they were living together.

It was around the time that John usually came home from work when there was a knock on the door, the doctor swore silently and pushed himself up and towards the door, opening it slightly to see Tim standing on the other side. John was slightly taken aback at the man’s appearance at the door,

“I saw you didn’t go to work today, everything okay?”

“Yeah, just don’t feel that well, you know how things go sometimes.” John replied

“Is this because of the comment I made about that Holmes Bloke? Honestly John, I don’t know why it should matter, it isn’t like he really cared about anyone but himself anyway.” John looked at Tim, his words striking another cord with him, making his chest ache, but wasn’t that true? Sherlock hardly knew or could give a second glance at emotions that weren’t his. In fact if he remembered correctly he even told Mycroft after Irene Adler had died, Sherlock didn’t feel that way. He didn’t care when they said Mrs. Hudson was dying, he didn’t seem phased at the fact Moriarty had captured him and threatened to blow him up. John didn’t say anything though, he didn’t want to admit that some part of him was agreeing with Tim.

“Well It is true isn’t” Tim asked again and John refused to speak, he didn’t want to admit that the man who had saved him was nothing more than a machine, but somehow John found himself nodding at the statement. He looked up to find a faint smile on Tim’s lips and that was probably due to the fact he was slowly starting to see what was holding him back from moving on.

                                                                                        

Things were getting easier for John after he had accepted the fact that Sherlock had most likely been playing him and that the genius didn’t care about anything other than himself. Everything was making sense in John’s mind based on what Tim had pointed out. Sherlock always sneaking out at strange hours and going out alone, he not coming back for hours on end. Sherlock never showed any real emotion, the only ones that were evident were those he could fake and those only came out when he was trying to pretend he was something he wasn’t, and it seemed as if Tim wasn’t the only one who had taken the anniversary of the fall to make him doubt Sherlock’s motives.

It may have been because Sherlock had been in the papers, or it could have been because Tim had brought him up, but for the next few days, most of the people that John treated all seemed to have their own input on the detective.

"I don't know why they bothered to run that article, no one is interested in him anymore."

"Do you think he actually spent most of his free time getting high?"

"I heard that that Holmes fellow was really good at manipulation, I bet you that's how he got that doctor bloke to stay with him for so long."

The last comment had stung the most, of John was being honest with himself. The thought that Sherlock had played him like a deck of cards hurt more than he wanted to admit to himself, and that voice at the back of his head was telling him it was completely and utterly possible. Sherlock didn't care about people, h was just good at using them, and there was a chance John had been one of them.  The doctor ran his hands over his face at the thought. Maybe they were all right, Even Sherlock himself that day on top of Bart’s; he was a fake and he had fooled them all, especially John.

He didn't want to believe it, but he was starting to, everything seemed to point it out and maybe he had just been so desperate and so blind to see it. He had found himself so low and so lonely that this interesting person who had told his life story in a look, swept him off his feet and took him for a ride, but John was nothing more to him than a stand in for his skull.

John didn’t know what promoted him to clear out the mementos he had of Sherlock’s, but he was sure it was something along the line of anger and hurt. The scarf, the video that was made for his birthday, a few other items from cases together made their way into the box that he had promptly thrown into the garbage.

The following months found John and Tim with the same speaking schedule, Sherlock being mentioned periodically, only to be the topic of discussion that was tossed to the side. He was asking Mary out more and more and before he knew it, she was moving in with him. And now found John looking into the Mirror as he adjusted his tie, before picking up the ring box that he had picked up at the day before from the jewelers, slipping it into his pocket before making his way to exit his flat.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock woke with a start. "J-Jo-hn" he called as if he expected the Doctor to be there, and some part of him did. John had been there last time he had woken up drugged and disoriented in bed, but that had been years ago and the bed had been his. It took him a few moments to remember the last few years. He groaned as he slowly opened his eyes, the white ceiling meeting his gaze. He assumed it was the same place he had seen in his few brief moments of consciousness when he had mistaken the Doctor for John. Slowly he pushed himself up, wincing as the skin on his back stretches slightly under the stitches and the bandages that are holding his skin together, and it takes him a moment to get use to the slight tight feeling around his chest. Slowly he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, his toes grazing the cold tiles as he looks over the room. It is small, like a clinic, but it isn’t a clinic, it doesn’t smell like one. The bed, equipment, and other supplies are hospital grade and probably came from a hospital, but it isn’t a hospital either, and he knows what a hospital looks like, having spent a decent amount of time in them when he was younger.

Carefully he moves forward, his feet touching the ground softly as the cold travels through his feet and up his legs, making his spine tingle unpleasantly and his knees ache slightly. His knees support him as he stands and he is rather glad that he doesn’t fall forward on his face and it takes a few moments to get use to the fact this is the first time he has been upright without the use of chains.

For a moment, everything feels so surreal, the last two years of his life are over, he isn’t a prisoner anymore being tortured for information, he no longer has to play dead because the web is dismantled much to his knowledge, he can come back and reclaim that life that he left behind to make sure the people he cared about were safe.

Sherlock propels himself forward on questioning feet, his warm skin sticking to the cold tile as he moves toward the door. just as it opens and Mycroft's assistant, Anthea is standing there.

 

"Mr. Holmes said you might be up" she said as she looked up from her mobile before slipping it into her pocket. "Let me get you a wheelchair and I will take you to your brother. "

 

"I don't need a wheelchair" he muttered as he looked at her. "There is nothing wrong with me" he glared at her, waiting for her to argue, but instead she just stepped out of the way.

 

"Right this way then, Mr. Holmes" She said as she held out her arm to direct him. He waited a moment before stepping out in the hallway, Anthea stepping out in front of him leading the way.  The floors were cold and stone, making  his joints ached, but he didn't say anything. He didn't want to come off was weak and vulnerable like he felt.

 

The walk seemed long, but it most likely didn't take more than five minutes to  navigate the halls and elevator, but his chest was aching and his knees felt funny. Anthea opened the door for him and Mycroft looked up from his laptop, his face unreadable, but his eyes swept over Sherlock's body to assess him.

 

"Have a seat Sherlock" he motioned for the detective to take a seat in the leather barber's chair a few feet from his desk. Sherlock made his way to the chair, sinking into the hard material as Mycroft made a phone call. He closed his eyes as he tried to catch his breathe, willing away the pain in his sides.

 

"You are looking much better" Mycroft broke the silence as Sherlock opened his eyes.

 

"Yes well, hanging from ones wrist from chains and being covered in blood does have the effect of looking rather ragged" Sherlock replied as the door opened causing him to jump slightly. He turned to see a man standing there, dressed in a blue button down and black slacks. Mycroft motioned for him to enter. Sherlock watched his every movement, weary of his presence.

 

"Sherlock, this is Gino, and he is here to make you look more...presentable" Mycroft stated as Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly but said nothing as Gino began to set up around the chair, which now became apparent it was for this purpose. The sound of water being placed in the basin behind the chair before setting up the warm cloth that would cover his face before he was shaved. The chair tilted back carefully and he could feel his hair grow heavy as it absorbed the water. He welcomed the feeling of the warm water as it ran over his scalp and he closed his eyes as the barber poured shampoo into his hand before working it into a rich lather before rinsing and repeating.

Sherlock figured that his hair would be a mess, matted with dirt, oil and sweat and it would take more than one wash to get it looking decent. Gino tilted the chair back up before towel drying his hair. The brush didn’t go through his hair that easily, it pulled and tugged and he could hear the sound of it being ripped from his scalp making him wince ever so slightly, however he remained silent and looked ahead, his eyes searching the grey room for something to focus on as the tall tell sign of his hair being cut filled the room. Snip, Snip, Snip, as the scissors cut away at the long mane, the wet pieces falling onto the apron, the back of the chair, and the ground. Mycroft had remained quiet for the most part, occasionally he would shuffle the papers on his desk as he typed away at his laptop. His face was creased with lines of concentration as if he was trying to, and most likely, memorizing the information on the screen.

Once his hair was short enough for his liking the chair was tilted back once more and the warm towel was placed over his face. The clank and clatter of a broom and dust pan told him that the hair that had been cut off was being cleaned up as Mycroft began move around his desk once more.

“I think it would be wise if you stayed here for a few days Sherlock.” The older Holmes voiced and everything seemed to still as Sherlock reached up and pulled the towel off of his face.

“I am not staying here longer than I have to.”

“Sherlock.”

“No Mycroft.” His brother gave an annoyed sigh as the barber slathered the lather over his scruffy face before sharpening the double bladed straight edge on the strap. The metal was cool against his skin as the skill hands set to work scrapping the hair from his face. He could feel Mycroft’s eyes on him, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want to be there any longer than he had to, he had other things to do, more important things, like finding John, Greg, and Molly. They were more important than being under the watchful eye of Mycroft who had failed to wade in while he was being beaten to a pulp.

Mycroft gave a huff of annoyance and Sherlock just rolled his eyes as he stared up at the ceiling looking past the barber’s face. He was growing impatient, he could have done all of this quicker with a razor and a pair of scissors, but this was Mycroft’s domain and he reigned supreme, unfortunately in his case.

“I see you were rather busy, a busy little bee.”

“The web was more extensive than we originally thought, I had to work hard and fast to get it completed in the time frame we established.”

“Are you sure you confident you have?” Paper was being turned over as Mycroft turned the pages of the file he was holding.

“Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle”

“Yes, you seemed to have gotten yourself in rather deep there with Baron Maupertuis, but you are safe now and that is all that matters.”

Sherlock remained silent as he shifted a little, the still position on his back was beginning to ache and this was dragging on, it never took him this long to shave, even when he was dead on his feet after a case.

“Mycroft I don’t have time for this.” He stated finally after what seemed to be hours, but it was probably no more than five minutes. “I have important things to do.”

“What important things Sherlock? You’ve been dead for two years.” Before Sherlock could reply, the door slowly opened once more and he looked in its direction to see Anthea standing there, one of his suits in hand. _Perfect._

The remnants of lather were wiped from his face as the barber finished his task. His chair was tilted upright and the apron was removed. Sherlock didn’t take getting to his feet as slowly as before, and as soon as he stood the room began to spin and he gripped onto the chair as he reached for the suit. His hand grasping the hanger as he willed the room to stop tilting.

“Sherlock?”

“I’m fine.” He grumbled, they both knew that it was a lie, he was far from fine, he shouldn’t be up and he definitely shouldn’t be getting his clothes to get dressed and emerge himself back into London, but there was no other way he wanted to do this. He waited until both Anthea and Gino had left before he laid the suit on the chair and began to remove the trousers he had been wearing, pulling the ones that came with his suit off the hanger. The detective stumbled slightly as he tried to put them on.

“I don’t need your help” his voice came out through gritted teeth as he felt his older brother’s hand grab his arm as he began to fall, but his brother said nothing as he kept the gently grip on his arm as Sherlock managed to get both legs into his trousers, wincing slightly as he bent down to pull them up to his waist.

“You really should stay Sherlock, at least a few more days, you shouldn’t be out there in this condition.”

“I am not staying here any longer, are you not listening to me?” Sherlock pulled his arm free from his brother’s grasp, losing his balance at the sudden movement.

“You are going to fall if you keep moving that way, Just… calm down.” Mycroft’s voice was soft as he spoke and Sherlock took as deep of a breath as he could as he tried to calm himself, knowing that his brother was right.

The robe was easier to discard, sliding off with ease and collecting as a pool around his feet as he removed his shirt from the hanger and put it on. Neither of them commenting on the bandages that covered Sherlock’s back and chest, they both knew the damage that had been done, Sherlock had felt it and Mycroft and seen it, and that was good enough for both of them.

“How is everyone?” The brunet questioned as buttoned up his shirt, his skilled fingers slipping them into their holes with ease.

“Fine I suppose”

“You haven’t kept in contact with them?”

“Was I supposed to?”

“Have you at least seen John?”

“Oh yes we meet up every Friday for Fish and chips”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly at his brother’s sarcasm as he tucked in his shirt, his socks and shoes came next before slipping on his suit jacket

“I think I’ll pay him a visit, stop by, and have a chat.”

“Sherlock” Mycroft’s tone was full of warning as he spoke. “It’s been two years, things have changed, there is no guarantee he will be pleased to see you.”

“Of course he will be pleased to see me, it’s John” Sherlock replied as Anthea returned to the doorway, a smile appearing on his face as he saw her belstaff in her hands. He allowed her to help him put it on, before he stuck his hands in his pockets and bid them farewell as his hands grasped around the paper he found in his pocket.

 

* * *

 

He swore his heart was going to pound out of his chest as he sat in the back of the cab for a moment before he paid the driver, stepping out into the chilly London air. Sherlock looked down at the paper in his hands. This was John’s new address, this was the place John had moved after he had jumped off of Bart’s Hospital and he wasn’t sure how he would be received. He hoped his friend would be happy to see him. The detective was holding on to a small thread of hope as he made his way up the steps, raising his hand to knock as the door opened. For the first time in years Sherlock Holmes stood face to face with John Watson.


	5. Not what was expected

John had made his way to the door of his flat, his hands patting at his pockets, making sure that everything he needed for this evening was there. He had slipped on his coat and picked up his keys from the dish near the door. He had looked away for a second as he opened the door and when he looked up, his heart leaped up his throat. He was staring into the face of a ghost. There was no way Sherlock Holmes was standing on his front step. He had seen the man jump to his death. He had rushed to his side and seen the blood splattered all over the concrete. There was no way this could be real, but how could he be hallucinating? He hadn’t had anything to drink, or hadn’t taken anything and he certainly wasn’t deprived of anything.

“J-John” The man in front of him said in such a desperate tone, it was nothing he expected a hallucination of the man to actually produce, that meant that this was the genuine Sherlock Holmes. _The Worlds only consulting detective, the genius, the fake, the freak, the liar._ John didn't know what to say to him as the shock began to wear off. Up until a year ago he would have been excited to see the detective again, he would have thrown his arms around his neck and he would have held him tightly because he had giving him one more miracle, but  that was before he knew what he knew now. Everything soon melted away, the shock, the surprise, leaving only annoyance at the fact Sherlock dared to show his face here again after everything he had done.

“W-what are you doing here?” He asked rather coldly as he looked at the taller man, taking in his appearance, he looked the same as he had two years ago, curly hair, long coat, and a suit, nothing out of place. Oh how he must have been enjoying himself while John sat and grieved his loss, how Sherlock must have laughed and smiled at the fact he had tricked most of London to believing he was something he was not. Honestly the Sherlock Holmes that John knew was dead, and he wanted nothing to do with the man standing on his stoop. “You’re dead”

That was not the reaction Sherlock had hoped he would receive, he thought that John would be happy to see him, at the least, pleased. After all he had begged him for one more miracle, he had begged him not to be dead, and there he was, living and breathing. The second was more difficult with the pain in his ribs, but he was doing it, but John didn’t seem that pleased to see him. He didn’t know what to say as John pointed out that he was supposed to be dead.  

“Well the short version, is not dead.” He said as he shifted his weight slightly from foot to foot. There was tension in the air, he could feel it. But he didn’t know what had changed, he didn’t know why John wasn’t that receptive of him.

“Yes, well that is obvious, if you don’t mind, stepping aside, I have somewhere to be.” John stated as he fiddled with the doorknob, and that hurt, more than anything. Being dismissed by John like he was nothing. Didn’t John understand that he had come back because he had asked him to? Did John know that he wouldn’t have tried to come back if it wasn’t for him? Did John not realize that if it wasn’t for him he might as well be dead?

“John…” Sherlock began, but Sherlock held up a hand to silence him.

“Save it, I don’t want to hear any fantastic stories of why you are here or how you got here Sherlock. I have more important things to do right now and you are just in the way.” John said coolly as he finally moved over the threshold and closed the door behind him with a snap before pushing past Sherlock. The detective stood there staring at the door, his heart felt as if someone had ripped it out. Sliced it into tiny pieces before shoving it back into his chest cavity. It hurt to breath, his world was tilting slightly and his knees were growing weak. He turned and followed John to the curb, he at least wanted an explanation for this, this change in attitude towards him.

The detective gingerly placed his hand on John’s shoulder as the man signaled for a cab, seconds later, it became apparent that was the wrong move. John was facing him and the doctors hands were pressed firmly against his chest, if he could feel the bandages that were holding him together Sherlock didn’t know, but all he did know was John had shoved him and he went stumbling backward, then the pavement was rushing up to catch his back. Pain rippled through his body as it impacted the concrete, his teeth sinking into his lips as he tried not to scream out as he felt the stitches give way, lights exploded behind his eyes and he couldn’t breathe. It hurt, it was like being whipped for the first time all over again. All Sherlock could do is look up at John as he panted trying to regain his breath.

“Don’t. Touch. Me.” John growled through gritted teeth and all Sherlock could do was hold his hands up in surrender as he tried to breath, as he tried not to let the tears run down his face. He looked up at the man who was looming over him, John’s hand clenched into fists as Sherlock scrambled to his feet as quickly as his back would allow, his hands still up in front of him as he took a few steps back. He was certain his face was unreadable, but it was hard to tell as he felt something slowly cracking inside him, like thin ice when it is stepped on in just the right spot.

“J-Jo-“ He began before he was cut off.

“Get lost Holmes” John cut stated before his name had been fully formed on Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock stared at John for a moment “I said get lost, or do you need me to spell it out for you?”

“No… No I get it” Sherlock stumbled over his words. He didn’t really understand why John was being this way with him, but he understood when he wasn’t wanted. Slowly he began to back up, his eyes still on John until the doctor shook his head and turned his attention back to the road, and then Sherlock bolted. His body was screaming at him as he ran, his back aching and he could feel the dampness of the blood seeped into the dressing on his back. He ducked into the first alley. His body sagged against the building, as his chest rose quickly as he tried to breathe and as he tried to manage his pain. The tears that had been collecting in his eyes slowly began to fall down his pale face as his arm wrapped around his middle while the other hand covered his mouth as to stop the sound of crying from escaping him.

John had stood there watching Sherlock as he ran from the corner of his eye. The annoyance he felt at the man’s sudden appearance leaving his body as he slipped from sight, John waved his arm in the air once more to grab a cab, more than ready to leave Sherlock behind.

He had no idea how long he had been in the alley way as the mobile vibrated in his pocket. Slowly Sherlock withdrew it, tapping the ignore button that appeared on the screen before pocketing the device. Slowly he pushed himself to his feet, wiping his face on the sleeve of his coat before stumbling out of the alley. His feet taking him in no particular direction, he didn’t want to go back to staying with Mycroft, there was no way he could deal with the look of ‘I told you so’. If he couldn’t find a place to stay, it wouldn’t be his first time out on the streets of London, he had lived like that before he had become a detective.

Sherlock moved through the streets, keeping his head down, allowing his feet to take them where they pleased. He should have been back in London, in the city that made him, but all he did was feel miserable, one of the people he had loved and cared about wanted nothing to do with him. He wondered if Molly or Greg could possibly help him get John back, but he was going to wait a day or two to go see Molly. His back needed to be tended to and he didn’t want to walk all the way to Bart’s nor did he want to take a cab.

It had been a few blocks since he had begun to walk and he stopped and looked up at the street sign and was greeted by a welcome sight: BAKER STREET THE CITY OF WESMINSTER. He stared up at the sign for a moment, gathering himself. He was on Baker Street for the first time in years, he was home, that was if Mrs. Hudson had not let out the flat to anyone else. Quickly he made his way down the street, his eyes falling on the doors, until Speedy’s came into view. Sherlock stopped as soon as he saw the brass numbers gleaming 221B in the light of the passing cars and street lamps. The final steps to the door were slow and measured and he stood there for a moment staring at the knocker before he slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open. It felt strange to be entering the building he had built himself up in, but it was more than welcoming.

The brunet’s hand was on the door knob for the second door when thought he heard the door that lead to Mrs., Hudson’s flat open, however when he opened the door, it was empty. Sherlock felt his heart drop into his stomach as he looked around the entry way before slowly entering. Everything was dark and covered in a layer of dust. The door to what was Mrs. Hudson’s flat was open and the room was dark. She hadn’t been there in months, it appeared as if she had moved out, and leaving the building empty, but she would have had to sell it for the money to move away.

The Detective wondered how much Mycroft was really keeping from him as he slowly ascended the stairs, puffs of dirt coming up from the steps as he moved up them to what was his flat. He wondered how much Mycroft had paid for the place when his landlady had moved out, because that was the only logical explanation for it to be unlocked and unoccupied. Hs brother knew he would want to return to the place he called home when he returned from his mission abroad.

The tortured man didn’t even want to think about what would have caused her to move out of this place, especially if the reason was his death. The door to the flat he occupied was closed and he honestly debated entering. His hand pressed against the wood of the door, it creaking open slowly. His free hand searching for the light switch, his eyes burning slightly as the light turned on. So everything was paid for, definitely Mycroft. Sherlock looked around slowly, everything was just as he remembered it, from the placement of the chairs, to Billy the Skull. The floor creaked under his feet as he oved into the flat, his science equipment was boxed on the table, his papers stacked up on the desk next to the laptop.

Slowly Sherlock sank into his chair, his eyes locking onto the chair across from him. John’s chair. Slowly Sherlock slumped forward, his head resting in his hands, this couldn’t get much worse could it?


	6. Second Hand emotions

It felt so empty in Baker Street as Sherlock sat alone in his chair, hunched over, his skin stretched taut, making his injuries burn, but he didn’t care. The burning was better than the emptiness that was settling like a rock at the bottom of his stomach. Time passed slowly as he gathered his bearings, before he slowly stood to prevent himself from stumbling and falling to the ground.

His eyes were focused on John’s chair for a moment before he moved around it, he slipped his coat off and draped it on the back of the kitchen chair as he made his way to his bedroom. Everything was where he left it, from the books on the table, to the picture of Redbeard that they hid, to his wardrobe full of suits, to his dresser which was full of an assortment of his things, like the shirts and sweats he use to wear when he went to the drug dens for a fix, now he just wears them to bed.

His bed was made up too, but he had assumed that the sheets had been changed with in the last few days and as much as he would love to just crawl into it, he needed to examine the damage that John’s shove had caused.

The light in the bathroom was dying, but it gave off enough light for Sherlock to get a proper look at himself. His hair was mused and his face was marked with tear tracks and his eyes were red rimmed and puffy, but the way his face looked was the least of his worries. The medical kit he had hidden under the sink as still there and the detective was thankful it still contained supplies as he began to unbutton his shirt, tossing it aside before unwinding the bandages, hissing as they pulled on the stitches. His chest was malted various colors, bruises in different stages of healing, his pale alabaster skin appearing more like granite than anything else. His back didn’t look any better. The vast expanse of skin was red and tacky and covered in blood, there were a few places were the stitches had ripped out, making the original injury worse than it already was.

Sherlock adjusted the taps on the shower, making sure that the water wasn’t too hot or too cold before slipping out of the trousers he had been wearing and stepping under the spray. The water stung at the broken skin, making it feel as if he was being stung by bees, however he needed to clean the blood off his back and since he was the only one there, this was the only logical explanation other than calling someone, and that someone would be Mycroft. And the last thing the brunet wanted was his brother to help bathe him.

The taps were turned off the moment the water that circled the drain ran clear. Sherlock grabbed a few towels, wrapping one around his waist, the other he used to dry off his back before re-bandaging himself. It was tight enough to hold the skin together and promote healing but it was loose enough he could breathe comfortably.

Dressing was somewhat easier this time around. While he did stumble and the room certainly spun when he moved too quickly, he was moving better than he was back at Mycroft’s office. He pulled back the covers and crawled into bed, maybe, just maybe things wouldn’t be that bad when he woke up.

 

* * *

 

Molly had always been fond of Sherlock, though he didn’t return the sentiment. She had first met him when she had started to work at Bart’s as the Special Register. He had come in with Greg to exam a dead body for a case that he had been working. He had been extraordinary as she watched him work, making deductions and observations she didn’t even notice. Over time, it had developed into a crush, she liked him because he was smart, interesting, and different. But he did not return those feelings either. Whether he just ignored the fact she liked him or the fact he just didn’t pick up on those types of social queues she didn’t know. And in between his harsh comments, brashness, and flat out rudeness to her, he needed her help occasionally and she was always more than happy to oblige. It was when John arrived that she got to see a different side of him. There was something always on his face that showed when he looked at him, thought Sherlock always looked sad when he thought John couldn’t see him.

When the smear campaign against him began, Molly was more than happy to help him out, when he came to her about faking his death, she was more than happy to be of some use to him. She had provided the second body, and she had been the one identify the body as his. However she didn’t get so much as a thank you before he made his way through the halls of Bart’s and out to whatever he was set out to do. She attended the funeral John had planned for Sherlock, and she was one of the few people who had showed up. And even thought she had been in on the plan, it didn’t stop her from hurting. It didn’t stop her from feeling guilty for being in on this plan while John wasn’t.

Life went back to normal, well as much as normal could be for her. The morgue was quite without Sherlock lurking for body parts he could snatch for his experiments or for him asking to see a body or to use some equipment. It was strange for him not to be there every other day, for him not to venting about how John was going to leave him alone for a few days.

A few days after the funeral, John had come to tell her about Sherlock’s ‘note and how he wanted John to convince everyone that he was a fake, a fraud, like Moriarty wanted, but she didn’t believe it. She had seen him at work, she had seen him make his deductions and they were far from fake.

A few months after the fall, Bart’s hired a new lab technician that was going to work along beside her. The girl seemed nice and was friendly enough and kept to herself for the most part. She had introduced herself as Adeline, a recent transfer from another hospital in the area, and Molly was more than pleased to be working with someone who wasn’t going to bring up her friendship with Sherlock every half hour. Instead she and Adeline was a few inches taller than she was with hazel eyes and copper colored hair that Molly couldn’t tell if it was from a bottle or natural, discussed other things such as work and cats. And it seemed that the new girl’s company was just what Molly needed to lift her spirts.

In fact it wasn’t until six months after Adeline had arrived, when a gentlemen was brought into the morgue that looked like Sherlock, was he first mentioned by her new colleague.

“He looks like that guy who jumped off the top of here.” Adeline said as she Molly handed her the samples that needed to be tested.

“Sherlock?” Molly asked as she turned her attention from the body to the girl standing a few inches away from her

“Yeah him, did you know him?” the lab tech asked as she looked at Molly, her head slightly tilting to the side in curiosity.

“We worked together.” Molly answered looking down at the gentlemen’s face, the likeness to Sherlock was startling, but she knew that the man wasn’t him, he was out, doing whatever he had to do, she hoped.

“Ahh So you got the rudeness and condescension from him them huh?”

“What?”

“Well, it isn’t like he was the nicest person in the world, always talking down to people that he thought wasn’t smart enough to be around him.” Adeline stated a matter of factly. “Always using his charm and good looks to get people to do his bidding for him too. Can you believe it?

Molly could actually, because that was the same thing he did with her wasn’t? Charm her with his skills just to use her to get what he wanted before leaving so much without a single thank you.

“I guess, maybe it was just who he was thought.” Molly said as she shifted slightly her eyes not going back to the body but not going back to the tech either.

“Come on Molly, I thought even you would know how manipulative he would have been, after working with him for so long! But none of that matters now does it? Because he is gone and he can’t bother anyone ever again.”

Those words struck deep, for more than one reason. She knew Sherlock wasn’t really dead, she had watched him walk out the service entrance and slip into the back of a black car and to her, being dead was the worst thing Sherlock Holmes could be. On the other hand she knew he could twist things until he got what he wanted, she had seen it a few times, and she had even heard it from Greg a time or two. What was to stop him from doing the same to her? She was nothing to him. And to her he was nearly everything.

Molly failed to notice Adeline leave her side with the samples as her mind wandered toward the times Sherlock had possible manipulated her for something he wanted. There was that one case with the Banker who had the tattoo on the heel of his foot. He had commented her, used her attraction for him for his own gain. He had convinced her to help him fake his death so he could get away. She had taken pity on him for looking sad when John couldn’t see because she knew what that look meant, and he and talked her into defacing a corpse of another person for his own use.

It seemed as if what he had told John while he was on the phone that day he jumped was true, but Molly didn’t want to believe it, but she couldn’t help it, not when everything she had done for him came after he complemented her on something or another. And that didn’t include the instances where he had completely ignored her or humiliated her, like he did at that Christmas Party Mrs., Hudson had thrown a few years back.

On the walk home that night, Molly considered the fact that maybe it was a good thing he was gone, it was good that he was no longer around to use her infatuation for him as a means to get her to do him favors. He wasn’t even supposed to be in that section of the hospital, he didn’t have the clearance, regardless of his degree in Chemistry, and she had never turned him in. She didn’t even complain when he beat the body of that man with the riding crop for some strange experiment, and that was something she could have gotten fired for.

That made everything that was said about him true then, and she didn’t want to believe that either. She didn’t want to believe he didn’t care for anyone but himself, but he hardly kept his lips shut and always hurt people with what he said. Sherlock never paid much mind to how anyone else was feeling, instead he was more focused on his needs than anyone else’s.

The next day at work, it seemed that the look alike had caused quite a commotion because as she made her way to her locker, all she could hear was his name, followed by comments.

“Sherlock Holmes didn’t care for anything…”

“He was nothing more than a selfish bastard…”

“Do you think that his lies finally caught up with him?”

“I feel bad for poor Molly, she was right in the middle of his manipulation”

She didn’t want to hear it, but there it was, that was what everyone else was saying, but it wasn’t like there was anything that could be used to refute their points, In fact as much as she didn’t want to believe what was being said, she couldn’t deny they were true, It was all true. The files and paper she had on him went into the trash bin that was to be incinerated, Molly Hooper wanted nothing to do with Sherlock Holmes, and the first time she say him again, if she saw him again, it would be too soon. She didn’t need a man like him in her life, friend or not, she didn’t need someone who used her feelings for their own selfish needs.

 


	7. Nightmare

_"J-J-John" The name slipped past his lips as the air was forced from his lungs by the blow to his side. It was his version of help, the one that always brought him results and safety, but Sherlock knew no matter how much he yelled out his friends name, John would not come. How could he? He was miles away, thinking he was dead. Honestly as the pipe continued to make contact with his exposed skin, Sherlock wished he was, then the pain would stop. Then men who were torturing would stop laugh as he gasped out John’s name as tears slid down his face. Then they would stop taunting him or at least he wouldn’t be around to hear them._

_He yanked on the chains trying to escape, but there wasn’t enough give in the restraints for him to get away, instead there was just the rattling of the metal as the cuffs dug into his wrists as the pipe again connected with his side. They were laughing again, saying things in Serbian, lower than he could hear properly. Sherlock lifted his head slightly as his tormentor moved back just into the shadows, his movement obvious, though what he was exchanging the pipe for was not. He stayed in the shadows, moving beyond the range the detective could turn his head, his heart was racing as the loud crack echoed through the air and pain exploded across his back. “J-JOHN”_

Sherlock bolted up in bed, his throat burning from the scream that had died in his throat, his body covered in cold sweat as , his back ached from the thrashing around that he had done while fighting off his imaginary imprisoners. The detective panted as he ran his hands over his face before bringing his knees to his chest to rest his head upon as he tried to calm himself. Tears pricked his eyes, sobs burning in his throat, his chest aching with the desire to call out for someone, anyone, John. John, one of the reasons he had did all of this for. The force that had kept him sane, the one they had used against him, and the one who would never know what exactly happened. Because John had made it certain he wanted nothing to do with Sherlock. Even if Sherlock didn’t know why there was this sudden change of heart in his once best friend.

After a few moments he carefully moved to the edge of the bed, his legs hanging over the edge before sliding down so his feet touched the cold flooring, his body shaking as he moved, his knees threatening to give out on him before he made it to the bathroom.

He didn’t even look like himself in the Mirror, his hair was mused and his complexion was pale and sickly. His grasp on the counter was enough to make his knuckles white as he tried to get some baring. He didn’t remember turning on the tap but he did remember the cold water splashing on his face before he sunk down to the floor, his knees were pulled up to his chest as his head rested against them, the skin on his back stretched, making the pain worse but the position was helping his breathing. After a half an hour, he slowly uncurled himself, using the counter to pull himself up. He leaned against it as he searched through the medical kit he left on the counter for supplies to change the bandages and something to take the edge off the pain.

He pulled off his sweat soaked shirt, tossing it aside as he unwrapped himself once more, hissing lowly as he cleaned them with iodine before applying an antibacterial and re wrapping it as best he could, He would have to go back to Mycroft’s soon if for nothing else than to get it properly checked out and prevent infection.

Sherlock didn’t bother going back to bed, instead he moved to sit on his chair staring down at the floor, refusing to look at the chair. He would play the violin, channel some of his emotions, but he couldn’t make himself stand nor did he think it was a good idea to stand in front of the window and play it, the last thing he needed was people claiming this place was haunted because they saw him in the window.

He shifted on the leather until he found a particularly comfortable position to doze off in, his legs thrown over the arm while his head rested on the backrest. The detective dozed lightly in that position as the sun began to rise, the light casting a glow across the room, the dust swirling in the light.

The sun had risen rather high in the sky by the time Sherlock properly woke up, his joints creaking and popping as he moved to sit correctly. The detective ran his fingers through his hair as he slowly stood to avoid the room from spinning. He needed to get dressed and he needed to get out of there, where he would go, he had no idea. After all, the deceased had no real destination did they?

He rustled through the suits, pulling out one of the black ones he had before settling for the dark navy shirt. _Dark colors hide blood better_ he told himself as he thought about his back. Suit jackets helped hide it too, not that he needed to wear anything over his shirts now. He dressed with the same ease he had the night before stalking out into the kitchen, grabbing his coat and slipping it on before heading down the stairs and out the door into the cool London air. He kept his head down as he walked, careful not to bump into anyone who would most likely recognize his face.

He had no destination in mind, not really. Sherlock just wanted to get out and be out in London again, to breathe the air and feel the energy he had missed while away. He allowed his feet to carry him through the streets, looking up once in a while as to not walk into traffic or to see where he was.

He stopped when the paving slabs looked familiar, because the look of the ground when you are speeding towards it is not something you forget, causing him to look up. It seemed strange to be staring up to the roof ledge he had been standing on the day he jumped. The detective looked around quickly before making his way into the hospital, he wondered if Molly was in and working, there was no better time to drop in and announce the fact he had returned, was there?


	8. Worse than words

Molly didn’t know what brought Sherlock to the forefront of her mind that morning, maybe it was the coat and scarf that Adeline had worn to work that day. The navy coat and the blue scarf that were just a few shades different from the belstaff and scarf he had worn for years. It made her chest hurt to think about him, because with the thoughts of him came the fact he had manipulated her, toyed with her feels for his own gain. She had been focusing on shoving the thoughts of him from her head when something caught her attention at the double doors that led into the Morgue. Her heart dropped when she saw him standing there, looking at her through the small Plexiglas window. The Pathologist looked away quickly, pretending not to notice him or his presence.

Sherlock didn’t know what to expect when he walked the halls of the Pathology department of Bart’s hospital. Everything looked the same since he had walked through them the day he left, but something felt different, it felt off, but he couldn’t explain it. Maybe it was the fact his heart rate was increasing exponentially or maybe it was because he was feeling anxious about seeing Molly again, one of the people who had made it possible to complete his mission. He paused by the double doors of the morgue, peering in to see her standing over a body bag, most likely a new body she had to examine. A small smile found its way onto his lips as she looked up and saw him, however it died the instant she looked away and pretended not to notice him. Things had always been slightly awkward between them, she liked him and girls just were not his area and he just wasn’t that good with expressing himself or his emotions that is why they called him a machine behind his back, out of ear shot, or even to his face.

Slowly he pushed open the doors, making sure they didn’t bang shut and draw attention to him from people that could have been working with her, but the only company she had was the dead man on the slab and the dead man walking towards her.

“Molly” Sherlock’s voice came out soft as he stopped at the foot of the examination table, his eyes focusing on her as she scribbled away on the clipboard she had in her hand. However she refused to look at him, it was as if she couldn’t see him, but he knew that wasn’t true, he was right in front of her.

“Did you change your hair style from the last time I saw you? I must say that it is working for you.” He said again, hoping to get her to look at him, the detective knew that she could hear him, she had seen him, so he couldn’t understand why she was acting this way.

Molly was trying hard to ignore him, maybe if she did that he would get the hint and go away. Just like those people who ignore stray puppies in an attempt to get them to leave them alone. She almost gave in and looked at him, acknowledging his presence, but the comment he had given only reminded her of what Adeline had said all those months previous. He was good at manipulation, He got her to do what he wanted through the complements and comments and she wasn’t going to let him do that now.

Sherlock felt himself slowly begin to deflate as she ignored him, honestly he wasn’t sure what was worse, John’s acts of violence or Molly’s blatant ignorance of his presence. It just seemed so off for two of the people he knew who cared the most about him to just stop. Maybe they didn’t care that much for him as he thought.  Maybe his time away made them realize how much better they were off without him. But if that was the case, they why couldn’t they just say that to his face instead of playing these games.

“M-Molly?” He asked as she moved around him as if he were nothing more than a table in the way of her job. He turned as she walked by him, he could hear the way his voice cracked when he said her name, but it wasn’t something he could have held back. He just wanted one of his friends to notice him, to tell him what was wrong with himself that they didn’t like him anymore.

Molly ignored him once more as she made her way to the stainless steel table that Adeline worked at most of the time placing the paper work next to the other stacks of work the tech had to do when she returned from lunch later on. She could hear the way his voice cracked when he said her name, but she told herself that it was just another way he was trying to get her attention.

“Molly, please say something to me” He took a step forward and he watched her movements stilling, her engagement ring reflecting in the light, capturing his attention before he took a step back. It was a rather modest looking piece of jewelry that suited the pathologist quite nicely, and it was with that observation he made up his mind.

“I hope that he makes you very happy Molly, you deserve all the happiness in the world.” Sherlock’s last sentence was so low he wasn’t sure if she heard it, and if she didn’t then it didn’t matter did it? The cold shoulder made it rather obvious she wanted nothing to do with him. He didn’t even wait for her to turn around as he began to his retreat, the soles of his shoes not making a sound as he left feeling lower than he did when he walked into the hospital. He pushed open the door to the morgue with the same softness he had when he entered and didn’t linger to see if she would even say good bye.

Molly blinked as she heard what Sherlock had said and then looked down to her hand, the light catching her ring just right. Of course he would notice it, no one else had, but he would. Slowly she turned and her eyes searched the morgue, but he was already gone, the doors were swinging ever so slightly. That was what she wanted, him to leave, and he did without a second word or having to be told to get lost. With a shake of her head she went back to work, there would be other people there for him, like John and Greg she told herself.

Sherlock found himself making his way back through the hospital his hands in his pockets and his head hung for another reason than just to hide his face. He had lost most of his support group: John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson. There was only one person left and he was weary if he should even make himself known to the Detective inspector. If it did, it would have to wait, however, his back was aching and his knees were too.

The streets were just as crowded as before as Sherlock stepped out of Bart’s and began his walk back to Baker Street. The November air was chillier than he remember, but that could be because he was now aware of his surroundings and not allowing his mind to wander. He drew his coat closer around his body, his arms encircling his chest as he moved, the cold making everything feel that much worse. Not that it could get worse than it already was. The heaviness that had settled into his stomach before had returned, slowly spreading upwards to his chest.

_Maybe everyone was right, maybe I am just a freak and it took them this long to realize it. Maybe they were just putting up with me like everyone else ever has because I am too much to handle._ Sherlock thought, his shoulders sagging again ever so slightly as he bowed his head a fraction more. He had not felt his dejected since he had met John the day that Mike Stamford had brought him in to the Chemistry lab.

Sherlock covered the distance between the hospital and his flat relatively quickly, he found the inside of the building more welcoming than he had found himself in Molly’s presences at the hospital.

“Pathetic” He muttered as ascended the stairs his feet dragging ever so slightly as he went. He closed the door behind him once he entered, locking it before placing his coat on the hook. Carefully he slipped out of his shoes by the couch. After a quick glance around the sitting room to make sure everything was in order he retreated back to his bedroom, He would wait a few days before he sought out Greg, he needed time for everything to sink in before he faced the one person he had left.


	9. Greg

Greg may not have known Sherlock the most but he most certainly knew him the longest. He had met the younger man during a raid on the drug den. He had been laying on one of the dirty mattresses in the corner, his eyes glazed and rimmed red, his hair, face, and clothes were coated in dirt and other questionable things. To Greg he was just another posh kid that got into drugs for whatever reason, maybe it was because he thought it was a nice way to unwind or some other reason that kids found now a days. It had been easy enough to get him in the back of the van with the rest of the people they were taking to the station to sober up, and for the most part he thought it would be fine, sure the kid would complain when he came to his senses, but he had not expected the kid to be making ‘deductions’ of his staff, correct ones at that, and pissing them off by the time he came to work the next morning. Greg would have been moderately impressed if he didn’t think the kid was still sauced from the night before. In fact he didn’t really pay attention to the Kid until he had started to make deductions about Greg himself, off of which were right, except for his wife cheating on him, he didn’t think that would ever happen. And of course when he heard the words “You have a case, a difficult one at that, well for you.” He approached the cell, looking him over. He had asked for his name and age. Sherlock Holmes, 25, a few years out of Uni, He had told Greg before asking, pleading to see the case file, telling him that he could help him. It was against his better judgment really to release Sherlock and take him back to his office. There was so much that could have gone wrong with letting him see it, but he was at a dead end, and he owed the family enough to solve it.

It had taken 2 hours and a few questions from Sherlock before he looked at Greg, tilting his head to the side slightly before placing the file back on the desk and explaining who had done it and why they had done it. Greg had been doubtful with his deductions but he agreed to look into it before taking Sherlock back to booking. Lestrade had been floored when everything that Sherlock told him was true and an arrest was made.

The next time Greg saw Sherlock, he was accompanied by someone not much older than himself, though this man held himself in higher regards than most people did. The man, who turned out to be Sherlock’s older brother offered a proposition, that Sherlock would help with the more difficult cases, because they were like a puzzle and they kept him busy, in exchange for remaining clean. And of course, Sherlock didn’t have to be on payroll, he just wanted to solve the cases.

For the next five years, Greg worked with Sherlock alone for the most part. No one wanted to work with the younger man, he came off as brash, rude, and arrogant, which rubbed his officers the wrong way. They ended up hating him for what he could do, for being able to do their job faster than they could do it, and he didn’t have any law enforcement training even though he was well read in the law. Of course there were some slip ups on Sherlock's part when it came to drugs, however he stayed clean for the majority of it.

Things changed the day Sherlock met John that was obvious. The detective had showed more patience with the doctor than anyone he had met at the yard. But Greg agreed that John was good for Sherlock, he kept him out of trouble kept him off the drugs. And things were going smoothly until that Moriarty Character broke into the tower of London. It wasn't the first time Greg had doubted Sherlock, but this time it was for an entirely different reason.

Sally believed that it was a possibility that Sherlock could be setting all of this up for the thrill of it. And when the brunette didn't agree to go willingly, it only seemed like Sally's suggestion seemed to have some ground. However Greg wished that things would have been handled differently.   There was no need for the officers to handle him as they did other than the act that they could, it was their way of displaying their dislike, it as there way of showing them how much they hated him. Moreover, there wasn’t anything the Detective Inspector could do about it, he was already in hot water as it was for having Sherlock on his cases and he had been removed as the arresting officer in this instance.

Greg hadn’t intended for John to get arrested for assaulting an officer, nor had he intended for Sherlock to make a run for it with his friend as his hostage. He couldn’t imagine what was running through his friends head as he bolted, he couldn’t imagine anything that was going on with the younger detective.

The man hunt seemed to be pointless, Sherlock knew London like the back of his hand and he could stay hidden as long as he wanted without being found by metro. It was mid-morning when Lestrade had called it off to head back to the office, it would be easier to conduct the search from there with tip lines and such. However, everything seemed to stop just past noon when his mobile rang. It was John, his voice sounded distant, off, like he was going to pass out any second and seconds later, Greg Knew why.

“H-He’s dead…Greg… Sherlock’s Dead.” John managed before the most pitiful sound he had ever heard met his ears. Everything stopped and the office went silent to his ears as he tried to grasp on to the words he heard, but they were slipping through his fingers.

“How?”

“H-He jumped…God Greg, He jumped off the hospital…” His heart stopped. Sherlock had a history of depression, he had tried to commit suicide a few years back, a few days before he met John. Greg had to go and talk him away from the ledge of the New Scotland Yard and there were a few times before that, late calls in the middle of the night with Sherlock near hysterics because he didn’t think he could do it anymore, those calls lasted for hours as he talked to him, calmed him down, offering to go and sit with him for as long as he needed, those were the calls they didn’t talk about.

The officer kept John talking as he pulled on his coat and jumped into his car, trying to calm down the Army doctor trying to keep him focused on something other than the fact that Sherlock had taken his life. John was waiting inside the Emergency Waiting room, looking pale and sickly as the silver haired man sat next to him.

“I-I can’t believe it… I am a fucking Doctor and I couldn’t even tell.” Greg clasped him on the shoulder gently, squeezing ever so lightly.

“You can’t always tell, John, the signs aren’t always visible.”

The car ride back to baker street was silent, John looking out the window wistfully and Greg feeling the world slowly coming down around them. This had become their new reality in a matter of seconds, and Greg always thought that Sherlock would be attending his funeral and not the other way around.

The next few weeks were difficult with the Funeral, which was sparsely attended and that came as no surprise, to the investigation that internal affairs launched to check all of the cases he had worked on since he met Sherlock. All of his personnel were interviewed more than once and a few were even fired. He himself was toeing a rather thin line when it came to his position at the yard. But that was to be expected when it came to consulting a third party for cases.

Greg immersed himself in work, focusing on the cases he was given, doing everything by the book, he had to they checked, but he could still feel the pressure. Those that were unsolved began to stack up on his desk and it became obvious how much Sherlock actually seemed to help, but no one said anything about it. The young man had become such a forbidden subject around the yard. It was like they were afraid if they said his name too many times he would come back, and Greg wished that was true some days.

It was a few months after the fall that the DI began to notice the murmurs with in the squad room, the ones that are the beginnings of rumors, but they would die off as soon as they saw him coming, making him wonder what was going on and one morning he got his answer.

One morning neat the beginning of January, one of the new Sergeants, approached his desk with a manila folder and a smirk on their face as they placed it down. “I just happened to be doing some research on that _friend_ of yours, he was quiet a colorful character wasn’t he?”

Greg looked up at them, this eyebrow arched slightly as he opened up the file he had been presented. Sherlock’s police record staring up at him, including a few hospital records from a time before they had met.

“I know all about this,” Lestrade replied as he closed it and shoved it to the corner. “I know about his record and his habits, I knew that before I let him work with me.”

The sergeant looked floored, as if they couldn’t believe that someone like the Detective Inspector had let someone with a drug history like Sherlock Holmes did work with them, but Greg honestly didn’t give a damn.

“Next you are going to tell me that those deductions he makes are a fake.” Greg leaned back in his chair, his feet propped up on the edge of the table as he folded his hands on his chest. “They have been trying to tell me that for years, and I doubt anyone could fake that.” The small crowd that had begun to form around his door, slowly began to fade as if this was not what they had expected. For the most part, it probably wasn’t, they wanted to see him turn against Sherlock, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t when he was alive and he certainly wasn’t going to do that now that he was dead.

His colleagues left him alone after that, the sergeant that had brought him the file just seemed to vanish but that could have been the result of anything really, like a department or shift change do to the embarrassment they put themselves through. Not that it bothered him, it made coming and going easier, it made for less questions, but it never stopped the whispers when he was out of ear shot.

The first time he saw John was nearly two years after Sherlock had jumped, they had a falling out of shorts, but Lestrade had no idea who else to give the mementos of Sherlock’s he had in his office to other than the man who lived with him. John took them with a tight lipped smile and pain in his eyes that were no less than the day of the funeral. It was awkward to say the least, there was less tension between him and his ex-wife then there was between him and John, and that had been a few months ago, before he knew that john had a girlfriend and certainly before Molly had gotten engaged to that lookalike.

Life went on as it does, now there he was standing behind some caution tape, frozen on the spot as his eyes fell on the one thing he never thought he would see again: Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had waited a few days after Molly had ignored him before he went looking for Greg, he feared now that he would be rejected the same way as Molly had, or maybe the rejection would be the same as John’s, leading to tearing of the thin, scabbing skin that was forming on his back. He had spent his time lounging on the couch, only getting up once and that was to get dressed and head down to the small market down the street so he could pick up something to make to eat, most of what he had made now resided in the mostly empty fridge.

The detective had no idea what compelled him to get up that morning and decided to roam London until he ran across his friend. Maybe it was the fact he was going stir crazy, or it could have been the sleep deprivation due to the nightmares he was having, but whatever it was, it was the driving force that made him slip on his suit and into his coat and coaxed him out the door. He kept his head down as he walked amongst the crowd, looking up every once in a while in search for something that screamed: THE POLICE ARE OVER HERE but there was nothing of the sort anywhere near him.

It was around noon before anything caught his eye as his joints began to protest all of this sudden movement after days of being sedentary. Slowly he approached them, his eyes scanning the surroundings. The police cars standing out against the backdrop, screaming their presence with flashing red and blue lights, his ears immediately picking up on the voice of Sally Donavan causing his heart to skip a beat. Slowly he pushed himself through the crowd until he was near the front, the only thing dividing him and a possible dead body was a few people, the caution tape, and a few sergeants that all thought he was six feet under in the cemetery.

He heard Greg before he saw him, it was a welcome sound, thought he was trying so hard not to get his hopes up in case he ended up like the others. When he saw him, he was walking with someone he had never seen before, not that it mattered as he waited to be noticed. It happened when the Detective Inspector was a few feet away from the tape, he looked up once to point in the direction of something before he did a double take, his eyes falling onto Sherlock as he offered him a smirk. Disbelief followed by a mix of emotions played across his face before it finally settled on happiness.

Sherlock thought for certain that the look on the other man’s face was a trick, but it didn’t take long to realize it wasn’t after all, why else would Greg be smiling at a crime scene? It wasn’t like he enjoyed them as much as Sherlock did, they were his work and Sherlock’s alternative to cocaine. Greg told the officer something before slowly making his way to Sherlock’s direction. Sherlock’s heart was pounding against his rib cage, so hard that you could probably see it. Maybe he thought that Sherlock was nothing more than an illusion, something caused by too much caffeine and too little sleep. He stopped a little closer, looking good and hard at Sherlock as if he expected him to vanish, and Sherlock had no worries about the others seeing him, he didn’t think they had the best observation skills as it was and if they did see him, they most likely thought they were dreaming. He had yet to make his return public, and he wasn’t planning on doing so until he had someone on his side to help with all the backlash that was bound to come his way.

The younger man’s mouth ran dry as the final feet were closed as soon as Greg’s gloved hand grasped the yellow tape, crumbling it in his grasp as he lifted it above himself, Sherlock had taken a few steps back to hide better in the crowd, drawing him out away from the people, for every step Greg took forward, Sherlock took backwards, the look on his friends face was of annoyance as if he was chasing a shadow and he more or less was. However, Sherlock stopped a good distance away from the crowd.

“Oh, You Bastard.”

 


	10. Alone is what I have

"Oh, you bastard" Greg's lips quirked up in the corner before he threw his arm around Sherlock’s neck, pulling him towards him before the other arm wrapped around his torso, embracing him warmly to his body. This was a surprise, something that Sherlock wasn’t expecting, but it wasn’t as if he didn’t welcome it. It was different, nice, compared to the other ways he had been received by the other people he had considered friends. The younger man didn’t say anything until Greg pulled away, holding him at arm’s length, looking him over like one would do a son they have not seen in ages.

Greg honestly couldn’t believe that he was actually looking at the one and only Sherlock Holmes, the one he had attended the funeral for, the one that did extraordinary things. Deep down he honestly should have known that something like this would have happened. Sherlock was always full of surprises and faking ones death was a surprise, a large one.

“You seem… well.” The DI stated, opening up conversation, his heart rate still soaring but the anxiety in his system was slowly fading.

“I’ve been busy the last few years.” Sherlock replied trying to keep himself from shifting his weight. “There were things that had to be done abroad and I was the only one that could do them, supposedly, I haven’t been back in London too long, a few days at the most.”

The Silver haired man nodded, secretly surprised that Anderson of all people was right, that Sherlock was alive and still working at that. But Sherlock could never take too much time off. His idle hands could be dangerous, his idle mind was worse, having nothing to occupy him is what usually led him to the seedy parts of London scoping out the drug dens and the dealers for whatever he thought would do him some good, which was usually Cocaine.

Silence spanned between them, not that awkward tension filled silence that had spanned between Sherlock and Molly or the silence between Sherlock and John. It was that comfortable silence that was usually found between the two of them, especially on the days Greg had come over to make sure he was safe and sit with him as he came down from a high.

“They have been keeping you busy I suppose” Sherlock said after a few minutes, his hands now clasped behind his back as Greg nodded.

“Murder never seems to take a holiday and as much as I would love to stand here and catch up on the last few years of your life as you played dead, I need to get back to the scene before they come looking for me.”

“Maybe I could give you a hand…? Take a look at the scene for you?” There was a bit of a pleading in his voice. Sherlock wanted something to do, something other than lying on his couch staring at the ceiling.

Greg sighed as he ran his hand over his face, he should have known that the offer to investigate the scene was coming, Sherlock lived for work, it was what kept him moving and kept him clean, but there was still the investigation going on from the fall, they were watching him closely, looking over his cases still. They were still trying to find out if Richard Brook was in fact James Moriarty, but of course every lead they had led them to a dead end. There was no way to clear Sherlock’s name just yet.

“Look- Sherlock. I would be more than happy to let you look over the scene and the cold cases that have stacked up on my desk- but…”

“But what?” The world began to slow down and the joyous feeling that had filled his chest began to fall away as Greg said those words, bad news was coming, he just knew it.

“But I am afraid that I can’t let you do that Sherlock, There is still an investigation going on with internal affairs, they look over my cases, they have their people working with me. I am toeing the line as it is. They are still looking into that Richard Brooks Character-“

“Moriarty.” Sherlock interjected as he looked at Greg, he was trying to buy some time, he didn’t want Greg to finish his sentence or explanation. Anxiety was swirling in the pit of his stomach and he began to feel slightly nauseous.

“There is no proof that he was Moriarty Sherlock! Nothing what so ever, every lead is another dead end, We can’t clear your name, as far as everyone still knows, you set this up, you are the fraud here not Brook. And there is no way that they will let me work with you with that. Hell if they know that you are even alive they might just take you into the station and stack the charges up against you!” Greg exclaimed before he sighed and now came the hard part.

“Sherlock, until they clear you, I am afraid I can’t have any contact with you. If I do they can fire me, they will fire me and that won’t do any of us a bit of good.”

It felt like a punch in the gut, forcing all the air from his lungs. There was a catch, there was always a catch. Of course it would take so long for him to get cleared, the only one who seemed to like him was Greg, and now, he was gone. Sherlock’s teeth sunk into the flesh on the inside of his cheek as he nodded slowly in defeat, his eyes refusing to meet Greg’s at all.

“Sherlock, I am sorry, but that is just how things have to be, but it won’t be forever, just—just keep yourself out of trouble okay kid?” he asked as he laid his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as the brunet nodded again, looking up at the DI once more.

Telling Sherlock that they couldn’t have contact was just as difficult as attending his funeral, it was like saying good bye all over again. He wanted the kid there, around his scenes making remarks, examining the body better than forensics. However, Greg did not want either of them to get into serious trouble. The last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to be arrested and tried for crimes that didn’t commit. They would kill him in Pentonville, and that wasn’t a question of if, but of when.

“The moment that the internal affairs is done and they have made some headway when it comes to Brooks, I will drive to Baker Street and tell you myself Alright? But until then, you have to go.” He removed his hand from the younger man’s shoulder before he began to back up slowly as he heard Sally call his name. Sherlock was still standing there when he turned around and ducked under the police tape promptly telling everyone where he went wasn’t any of their damn business and for them to get back to work.

Sherlock watched Greg leave, his breathing was rather harsh as his chest constricted uncomfortably, this didn’t seem real, it couldn’t be real, but he knew it was. He everyone that cared about him, everyone that had looked after him for the last few years were gone and now he was back where he was. Completely and utterly alone. It made him wonder for a moment if this what Moriarty had meant that day at the pool when he sneered that he was going to burn the heart out of him, because it certainly felt like it. He stood there for a few moments as he tried to get his limbs to cooperate with him.

They felt like they had been filled with lead as he began to move, his hands in his pockets as he slowly made his way down the street. There was this disconnect between him and his surroundings, much like there had been that day he walked home from battersea station after seeing that Irene was still alive.

Honestly if he knew that his was what he was going to come back to, he would have told Mycroft the day he was rescued to just leave him there and let the Serbian’s finish him off like they wanted. It would have been more merciful than the way he was feeling at that moment. He was certain his brother could have come up with some believable lie to tell their parents about why he wasn’t coming back alive other than the fact he didn’t want to be alone any more.

Sherlock had spent too much time alone during his years at school and it was horrible, it wasn’t as bad as the bullying or the name calling, because then they were paying some attention to him, and he managed to muster through that, not always unscathed. The same could be said now really, everyone hated him, they all thought he was a fake, a fraud, a freak. Except for Greg, and he couldn’t even talk to him without placing both of themselves on the line.

The walk back to his empty flat seemed to take longer than it had the previous times, deep down, he didn’t want to go back, not now, not when it felt cold and empty like he did now. It was well after dark before Sherlock stepped up on the stoop, unlocking the street door and entering. It looked like it had after he saw John, only now, there was no small thread of hope running through him as he walked up the stairs to his flat. Slowly he shed his coat and hung it behind the door before walking to the window and closing the shutters before turning on the light and the heat. He sunk down to his chair as he untied his shoes and slipped them under his chair. His body slumped forward in defeat as his hands came up to cup his face as he screwed his eyes shut. His body trembled slightly as he tried to hold it all in, but soon warm tears were sliding down his face and into the palms of his hands.

This was why Caring as not an advantage, caring got you hurt once the people you cared for stopped caring for you. A low pitiful sound escaped his lips as he allowed the first sob to escape his lips. His shoulder trembling with more force now as he tried to force the feeling of drowning from his chest.

Before he knew it, he was on his feet, his hand and arms swiping at the mantel over the fireplace, his things flying to the floor with a clatter, papers flying in all directions as he took his frustrations and pain out on his belongings: Case files, books, experiment conclusions. Loose leaf paper flying in the air, the dust making the air musty and dank. Books making loud thuds against the hard wood floor. His face was flushed red and his chest heaved as John’s chair toppled over into a mass of blurred pink and red, its image distorted by his tears.

“N-Not f-fair” He sobbed as he finally sunk down to the floor in the middle of the mess he had created. “N-Not fair... Not… fair” He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to be this lonely anymore did he? He didn’t deserve to have the feeling of his heart being ripped out from his chest did he? He couldn’t understand what he had done wrong to deserve any of this now.

Sherlock crumpled, his body ending up on its side his eyes screwed shut as his shoulders heaved, no sound leaving his lips now, there was no sound that he could make that would make the uneasiness and the pain in his chest dissipate. Because now, for the first time in years, Sherlock Holmes was as lonely as he ever was, and for once he certainly did not welcome that fact.


	11. Taken

The sun peaked into the room through the slats in the shutters, bathing Sherlock’s tear stained face in light, the man groaned softly as he cracked open his eyes before slowly pushing himself up. His body ached from spending the night on the floor, his head ached from the crying, and his chest hurt from the large gap that seemed to have formed over the past week. His sitting room was a mess as he looked around, papers scattered everywhere, his knife was sitting with the blade into the floor while Billy the Skull laid cracked by his toppled over violin case, even John’s chair laid on its side, the cushion laying near the fire place.

Sherlock sat there for a moment before he began to pick up the papers with nimble fingers, the shuffling of the papers filled the room as he cleaned up his mess. He pushed himself to his feet and placed the papers back on the desk before moving to pry the knife from the floor and inspecting the damage he had done to Billy.

“It’s just you and me once again.” He muttered to the skull as he placed it back on the mantel before sticking the knife back where it belonged. The last thing to be picked up was the toppled over chair, he stopped and stared at it for a moment before moving to grasp the back of it, slowly righting it. The leg of the chair hit the floor with a thud, echoing through the flat, but Sherlock refused to acknowledge the fact that that meant he was alone. Instead he went about his business, placing the kettle on the stove to heat water, pulling something that he made from the fridge and placing it in the experiment free microwave before going to look over his healing injuries.

He had resigned to keeping himself busy until he could find the desire to talk to his brother again and get this mess that became his life sorted out. However, he figured that would be up until he did something stupid ad costly and that required his brother’s intervention. Mycroft was usually always too busy to constantly have to deal with him, and Sherlock knew that, after all there was only so much time in the day to deal with running a country and keeping tabs on your little brother who seemed to be a danger magnet.

The kettle began to whistle the moment Sherlock finished with his bandages and he sighed before pulling on his dressing gown before going to make himself some tea.

The first few says were fine, he spent the way he had in between searching for his friends, laying on the couch staring at the ceiling and when that got to be boring he brought out the violin, though the only sound it created was a low sorrowful wailing that just fit the way he felt perfectly. The Chemicals he had stored under the sink were still partially good when he began to experiment once more, thought they had aged to the point the reactions were not that spectacular.

A week later found him typing up the papers that were on his desk, most of them old experiment results and papers he had written on the various types of threads, perfumes, and of course tobacco ash. All of which he uploaded to his blog, He was dead after all, and no one looked at it anymore, they had all gone to stalking John’s blog, so there was no hurt in actually putting something up.

The Case files he had were too typed up and saved as documents on his laptop, not so much as what John use to do, but more as something just to do to keep himself busy. It gave him a chance to look over them again, maybe pick up a thing or two he had missed the first time. But soon everything was becoming too mundane and the craving for something more was starting to itch at him. He was starting to feel irritable and depressed and he would stare at his laptop screen after looking for videos on experiments, reading the paper online, even after checking John’s blog, in which he had announced his engagement to a Mary Morstan. Sherlock had even gone so far as to do some research on John’s soon to be wife just to have something to do.

It was getting to the point Sherlock was about to venture out and sneak into bart’s for a few body parts to swipe, but then he would need Molly’s help to open the body storage in order for him to get them. He was starting to go stir crazy, He was bored and he wasn’t sleeping like he should with the nightmares that he thought wouldn’t bother him as much as they were, he as pacing through the flat, hands running over his face and into his hair, his body was jittery and the feeling that his skin was too tight and uncomfortable was starting to consume him. He had already smoked his way through the stash of Cigarettes he had found one evening while digging through the drawers in the desk, next went the stash that he hid under the couch in the Persian slipper, the last one was currently hanging from the side of his lips, smoke billowing from between his lips with every puff, but that wasn’t enough to calm his nerves anymore.

His mind kept supplying he needed something stronger to help him deal with the depressed moods and irritability he was feeling, but Greg had told him to stay safe and staying safe usually implied staying away from narcotics and such. It was starting to weight on him, the desire for a fix was pulling him one way while the desire to stay clean was pulling him another. The brunet didn’t want to disappoint the one person who still cared for him, and the guilt that would consumed him if he did would be great, but there was no hope that Greg would be coming by in the next few days, or weeks even.

Sherlock dug his shoes out from under his chair and slipped them on before grabbing his wallet after checking the amount of cash he had on him. He slipped into his belstaff before heading out. It was still early in the evening, the streets were still packed and the traffic was heavy, easy enough for him to slip into the alleyway and navigate his way to the more unsavory parts of the city, the places he use to frequent when he was younger. Even after so long his feet still knew the pathway, carrying him towards one of the more prominent dealers in the area, ones that never really kept up with the news and really won’t care if he is alive or supposed to be dead, let alone a fraud or for real, as long as he had the right amount of money for what he was looking for.

It had only taken him a short amount of time to find a dealer and make the exchange, He took the same path back to the flat, his purchase in his pocket, his hand wrapped around it. Sherlock acted as normal as he could with his heart pounding at the fact he had just bought some cocaine. Once inside the doorway, he took the stairs up to the flat two at a time. He locked the door behind him and pulled the drug from the pocket of his coat as he cast it aside. His sleeve was rolled up passed his elbow by the time he reached his bedroom, and it didn’t take long before he was injecting the cocaine into his vein. The feeling was euphoric and it was wonderful while it lasted and the crash came quick and hard.

Things went on like that for a while, Sherlock buying drugs every few days, first he was just taking it back to his flat and enjoying the euphoria and the relief that it gave him, but soon he found himself dressing in the clothes he wore when frequenting drug dens. No one noticed him coming back in the early morning just to leave again as the evening set in. He wasn’t that noticeable and if anyone saw him, they never spoke up about it. This ritual was the opposite of what Greg had told him to do, and if Greg found out, Sherlock knew he would never hear the end of it. However he was being as careful as one could be when it came to stimulants. Thought that was getting harder and harder and the last thing he wanted to do was Overdose, again. It had been a few years since he had overdosed, and he didn’t remember who had found him, but by the looks he got when he woke up in the ICU, it was most likely Greg, not that anyone was going to come around and make sure he was still handing all of this on his own.

Sherlock’s decision to staying in the drug den would become one that he would regret, he knew that, especially as he laid on the mattress in the corner of the newest place he had found. It was dirty and dingy but it had people in it, and they were all as sauced as he was, but in his mind at least he wasn’t alone.

He had been dozing lightly on his side, he could hear footsteps approaching but he paid no mind to them. People came and went at all hours of the day. The footsteps stopped near his back and he couldn’t remember if the mattress behind him was empty or not. There was shifting of weight and then there was a dip in his mattress that made him open his eyes. The hairs on the back of his neck began to stand on end as the mattress began to move as someone dragged it from away from the wall. His movements were sluggish as he tried to move only to find that someone had a hold on his wrist and was pulling him upward. Sherlock stumbled slightly before the other arm came across his chest to hold him upright. He was being dragged backwards, the tennis shoes he wore scrapping against the floor as they went. He was trying to gain some footing and trying to get away, but his movements were so sluggish and everything was just so out of it for him he couldn’t

He tried to wiggle out of the grasp of the person who had a hold on him, but it was of no use. He didn’t have complete control over his body just yet. He was beginning to panic, where were they taking him? He hadn’t been on a case in ages, not even private ones. Why where they targeting him?

“J-John!” He called out only to find a hand clasped over his mouth as they took him down the stairs. He continued to make some noise, trying to get the attention of the others, but they were so far gone, they didn’t even seem to notice someone was taking him, no one would even remember if he was there or not when they sobered up.

His abductor gave him a violent shake as if to tell him to shut up, but he refused.

“JOHN” He yelled once the hand was removed from his mouth, but that was short lived as a cloth was slapped over his mouth, his movements began to slow as he inhaled whatever was on the cloth- Chloroform- his mind had managed to supply as his eyes began to droop and his body relaxed they made their way outside, the last thing he remember was being thrown in the back of a vehicle, the sound of  various voices yelling orders before the sound of the door slamming shut met his ears. Just as everything went black, the vehicle began to move, taking him away and no one would notice.  


	12. Moran

Sebastian Moran had no problem being James Moriarty’s right hand man. He had been hired after his dishonorable discharge from the Military. He was hired because of his savviness with a sniper rifle and his crack shot abilities. While it had been the first reason Jim had hired him, in the end it wasn’t the only reason. There was always something that he and Jim had even if they didn’t recognize it at first. Maybe it was how much their personalities fit or just the fact that Sebastian didn’t take Jim’s crap like the others. Sebastian had never been afraid to speak his mind, and that was one of the things the consulting criminal admired. Though at this point Sebastian had no idea when they became more than boss and contracted assassin, but that no longer mattered, not when that was the only thing he had of the criminal.

Sebastian had always been privy to all of his partner’s plans, all except for the last plan the criminal had developed for dealing with Sherlock Holmes. It had always got the ex-colonel that out of all the plans Jim had refused to show him that one, and it became obviously clear why later that day. Jim had an obsession with Sherlock Holmes, one that showed prominently over the eighteen months he had decided to create this game between them.

Anything that made Sherlock Holmes question himself and his ability made Jim giddy, it gave him life, it gave him something other to focus on then the emails that were coming in from the people in his network asking for help, and it wasn’t long until they had all been pulled into this mess that had be created. It all began with Jeff the Cab driver and the poison pills he used to kill those who were new to London and had the misfortune of stepping into his cab, then came the Chinese circus and their antique smuggling ring. The next few cases they had taken up, were all small cases that seemed to fit right into Jim’s idea of fun until the pool. Things didn’t go as planned, even Seb knew that from his place in the raptors with the rifles trained on the curly haired man. Irene had just picked the right time to call, if not they would have all been blown to pieces.

The eldest Holmes brother had played into their hands and had given them more than enough information for Jim to begin the biggest game of all. The smear campaign was easy enough, planting doubt in those who worked with the detective, finding someone who looked enough like him to kidnap those children. It was easy enough to make London think that the world’s only consulting detective was playing them all, but the end result was not what anyone had really expected.

It wasn’t as if Sebastian didn’t enjoy part of the games, he did, he found them exciting and anything that left him looking through a scope waiting for orders to fire was right up his alley. The only thing he had had an issue with was the effect the games were having on Jim, especially when it all ended like I did on the top of Bart’s. Jim had been hinting at dying for a while, always saying things about the color of his casket and how things should be run after he was gone, and that Seb would run the network in his absence. It was only the phone call he had received half an hour before Sherlock Holmes Jumped off the top of the Pathology department that placed everything together for him, and by the time he had gotten to Bart’s it was too late. The impression that Sherlock Holmes was dead did not last for long, and the moment Moran was certain the detective was still alive, he vowed to get him back for Jim’s death, because if it wasn’t for Holmes, he would still have his criminal.

The day that Sherlock took off for Asia, Moran gave the order for the agents in London to mobilize, find Jobs, become civilians and keep the idea that Sherlock Holmes was a fraud and a fake and it had worked.

Sebastian looked into the rearview mirror of the car, a smirk on his face at the body in the backseat. It had been too easy to get the man into the back seat of the car, easier than he thought it was going to be, but Moran had the drugs to thank for that. Everything seemed to be falling into place for Sebastian, and by the time he was done, Sherlock Holmes would wish he was dead

His body felt strange as Sherlock began to gain consciousness, his head was aching and he felt nauseous, his limbs were heavy and numb. The room was spinning as he tried to open his eyes and the detective couldn’t honestly tell if he was laying down or sitting up. He couldn’t remember if the fact he had been taken from the drug den was reality or a dream, and he seriously hoped it was the latter. However as he began to gain his bearings, he knew that it wasn’t a dream. Slowly he managed to open his eyes without the world from spinning. The space he was confined in was the same size as the room he had been kept in in Serbia, the only real difference was the fact the walls were not peeling and his arms had yet to be chained to the walls.

Panic was starting to set in at the fact he was somewhere that he didn’t know, he looked around slowly for something, anything to tell him where he was at, but his observations came up empty. The brunet closed his eyes and took a deep breath trying to calm himself and his twisting stomach. Silently he cursed himself for venturing to the drug den and staying there, he cursed himself for giving into the desire for a fix, because it he had not done that, then he would not be in some strange place.

* * *

 

Sherlock could not recall aggravating anyone to the point they would drag him from the crack house, he hadn’t seen anyone he knew in weeks, he had not even bothered to announce his return after what Greg had said. He had no clients, he everyone he had ever placed in Pentonville thought he was dead, and only a handful of people knew that he was alive.

He looked in the direction of what sounded like approaching footsteps and the door swung open slowly, creaking loudly.

“Glad to see you are awake Mr. Holmes, I’ve been waiting.” The tone of the voice was enough to make his spine tingle. The man was hiding in the shadows of the room, Sherlock unable to make out his face from where he was slumped. “I was beginning to worry that I had done something wrong, but I guess your body is just trying to get rid of all that crap you insist on putting in your veins.”

“Who are you?” Sherlock asked, berating himself for not knowing, the man chuckled lowly in his throat as he took a step forward. The smirk on his lips was undeniable as was the hatred in his eyes as he looked at him.

“The Great Sherlock Holmes doesn’t know who I am, what a pity.” He said as he clasped his hands behind his back. “But you will find out all in due time, I’ll make sure of it.” Sherlock felt his skin crawl at the words he heard.

“What do you want?”

“I thought that much was obvious, I want you” He man bent slightly at his waist, getting a bit closer to Sherlock than he would have liked. “I want you to suffer.”

“S-suffer?” the detective was starting to hope this was a dream, one of his twisted nightmares that make you think you were awake but you were still dreaming.

“That is what I said. I didn’t studder.”

“What have I done?” That was the wrong thing to say as Sherlock found himself pinned against the wall, the man’s face inches from his own, and the hand around his throat tightening.

“You are the reason he’s dead” Everything clicked into place. This was because of Moriarty, everything was because of Moriarty. That meant that the man who held his throat like one would hold a bat was Moriarty’s right hand man. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Why didn’t he realize that there was more to the puzzle then what he had dismantled?

“And I am the reason you are alone.” That caught Sherlock’s attention quickly, Sebastian chuckling lowly in his throat at the look on the detective’s face. “I set it all up, placing my people in close proximity with your friends, telling them all those lies about you just so you would know what it feels like to have something you care about ripped right out from under your feet. John’s neighbor works for me, convinced him you were nothing more than a selfish bastard who was using both him and drugs. The lab tech that Hooper has convinced her that you manipulated her to do what you wanted her to do. I may not have gotten that DI to think you were a fake, but I know a few people in the force that wouldn’t have thought twice about firing him and arresting you. You see, you brought all of this on yourself.”

The grip on his throat eased and Sherlock gasped for air before he was released and fell to the ground. His hand moving to rub his neck as he coughed. All of this was because of Moriarty, all he had done was stand there as the criminal as he shot himself, but he had been there and that was all that mattered to the right hand man of Moriarty.

“Don’t get so comfortable here Holmes, I am going to wait until you are a bit more sober before we begin because I want you to remember this, just like you are going to remember my name.” The laugh in this throat was cold and menacing as he headed to the door.

“I-I don’t know your name.”

“It’s Moran, I didn't expect you to know it, but i do expect you to remember it, because it will be the last thing you may ever say"

The door slammed shut and the bolt slid into place, Sherlock closed his eyes as he leaned into the wall, hoping, praying this was some dream caused by the cocaine he had been using, he didn't want to think this was real.


	13. And Now it begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains Violence

The idea of torturing people always made Sebastian giddy and the fact he could finally take out all of his anger and frustration out on the man who caused him to lose Jim made it feel like Christmas. Moran had been dreaming of this day for ages, at least since he had put Jim into the ground. He chuckled lowly to himself as he shoved the key into the door and opened it. The lighting dim, caused by the dying bulb on the ceiling. The Sniper’s eyes fell on the man curled up in the corner. His heart began to drum against his chest. He had waited until he was certain that Sherlock’s high had crashed, and then he waited a little longer, then the need for another hit would begin. Sherlock would be in the beginning stages of withdrawal, and Moran was going to make the most of it.

The detective didn’t move as Moran crossed the room, the curly haired man’s face hidden under his arm as he tried to hide from the light. With a smirk on his face, Moran grabbed the man on the mattress by his upper arms and hauled him to his feet, he held the other man to him, back to chest, it was better for mobility.

“Let me go.” Sherlock growled clearly agitated at the fact he was being disturbed, he was tired and annoyed, his body and skin felt uncomfortable and he was dying for a hit, something that would replace the anxious feeling with euphoria, even if was just for a few moments, anything was better than the way he felt at that moment.

“I think not, did you forget what I said earlier Mr. Holmes?” Sebastian murmured into his ear. “I am going to make Serbia seem like a holiday to you.” Sherlock tensed in his hands at his words before he began to tug him roughly to the door. The detective tried to make himself dead weight, but that didn’t bother the sniper as he began to drag him to the room that he had set up while he had been waiting.

The crash had come quickly, quicker than he had expected. The depressed mood coming first, hitting him like a train as he laid there facing the wall, his arms wrapping around his torso and head as the heavy feeling settled in his chest. a weight settling around his heart signaling he was in fact sobering up, much to his dismay. His mind was racing and his body felt tingly and uncomfortable as the desire for another hit was overcoming him. It would only be a matter of time before withdrawal set in and he doubted that Moran would be merciful and give him something to stave off what was coming.

The sound of footsteps startled him, but he refused to move, instead he laid as still as he could as the door to his cell opened and Moran entered. He didn’t know what to expect but it wasn’t the grip on his shoulders nor was it the fact that he was being dragged into another room. He was tense at the mention of Serbia, his marks barely healing over. At least in Serbia he knew what to expect, but he had no idea what was coming when it came to Moran.

He had been dragged a good distance down the hall from where he was being held into a different room, this one not as dim, but just as small. His body moving forward with the force of being flung into the room, his feet unable to correct himself as he fell to the ground, his hands reaching out to catch himself. The metal door slammed shut with a loud bang as he looked up at the man who towered over him. His eyes taking in Moran properly for the first time, trying to distinguish the odds if he fought back. _Old Military Service, had been there long enough to become a ranking officer, dishonorably discharged from his service, hired by Moriarty a few months back on the mainland and currently running the Criminal web._ His deduction came out choppy and less than fluent, maybe that was caused by the fact everything just felt wrong or because he wasn’t thinking like he should have been.

There was a glisten in his eyes as Moran looked down at Sherlock nearly the same one that always appeared in his bosses eyes and the evil smile that was twisting on his lips just before he stretched out his arms, fingers interlocked as he cracked the joints in his fingers told Sherlock all he needed to know about his first day in this hell.

“I would say this would hurt you more than it would hurt me, but then I would be lying” Moran said as he watched Sherlock stand before taking a swing at him, Sherlock falling back against the floor. a shock of pain traveling up the bones of his arm. The detective scrambled backwards as the sniper advanced on him, he tried to stand again only to have knuckles meet his still healing ribs. The world spun as the pain hit him, his body falling sideways.

“Such a light weight Holmes, I thought you were tougher than this.” Moran chuckled as Sherlock glared at him, moving to his feet quickly and charging at the man, only to find hands grabbing his wrists and flinging him towards the opposite wall. His back hitting the surface and his breath came out as a wheeze. He felt exhausted and he hadn’t done a damn thing, but he knew that it was the withdrawal taking its hold on his body.

“Don’t make this so boring, I am just getting started here.” Sherlock looked up at him as he grabbed the front of his shirt. Sherlock said nothing, he wasn’t going to give his tormentor any satisfaction at hearing a sound escape him.

“Oh the silent type, even better.” He muttered as he slammed Sherlock into the wall, his face contorting slightly at the impact, pain shooting through his spine. “It will just make everything so much more satisfying when I do get to hear the sounds that you can make when you hurt.”

Moran’s knee came up between them, connecting with Sherlock’s stomach causing him to gasp out, his throat was burning and he ached. He fell to the floor in an ungraceful heap, his face even with Moran’s shoes. This wasn’t a fair fight, he was experiencing withdrawal, he was exhausted, and his body was still healing from his time being tortured. Moran knew he had the advantage over him, and he was going to use it. The detective had a few seconds to shield his face as the sniper cocked back his leg before vaulting it forward into Sherlock’s side. The man was leaning over him, hand braced against the wall, looking down as he watched his foot connect repeatedly to the brunets side, pausing when he heard Sherlock’s wheezing.

Sherlock closed his eyes as he tried to ignore the pain that was exploding all over his body, especially his side, the ribs cracking once more making breathing somewhat difficult. His diaphragm ached and his throat burned and he was getting so tired.

“Maybe we should continue this later? When you aren’t panting like a dog in the middle of the summer.” Moran stated as he picked Sherlock up by his hoodie, the detective’s arms wrapping around his chest at the movement. Sherlock’s feet were back under him and he was able to stand for what he was worth, but that wasn’t that much anymore, this was just the beginning and it was honestly nothing. “Or maybe we should continue until I drag you back to your cell unconscious, what do you think?”

The genius stayed quiet focusing on breathing more than he was thinking about his options. The grip that was had on him was released and he leaned against the wall for support Sebastian shaking his head.

“You are pathetic. Can’t even defend yourself.” Sherlock glared at the blonde but didn’t move, instead he closed his eyes before he was thrown again to the floor the boot now connecting with his back.

“I am not pathetic.” Sherlock spat, spittle coating his lips as he looked in the man’s direction.

 Moran kicked him hard enough to bruise and crack a few things, but never to break anything. It seemed to go on for hours and it honestly could have, Sherlock gave up on trying to tell the time and instead focused on staying awake, fighting the fatigue and the pain that was slowly consuming his body. Then it all stopped. The detective laid on the floor, closing his eyes as he took a breath as the man who had been taking his aggression out on his body panted heavily like one did after vigorous exercise.

“I thought there would be a little more vigor in you, but I guess the lack of sleep prevented you from being prepared to fight back. For now, I’ll have some mercy on you, only because I want you to last a long while.” Sherlock didn’t respond as he felt the hands grip his arms and haul him to his feet, he didn’t try to stand as Moran proceeded to drag him back down the hall the same way they had come. Sherlock’s eyes scanning the hallway, only to find it the same color as the rooms he had been inside and the doors were closed, most likely locked.

He was thrown back on the mattress he had woken up after being taken from the drug den. Moran patting him between the shoulders after placing him face down.

“Do rest up Mr. Holmes, I have plans for you and it would be much appreciated if you could fight me back.” The last pat was more of a slap, but the sound was muffled by his hoodie. The door shut moments later and Sherlock felt his muscles relax and his pain bleed out into his muscles as he tried to get somewhat comfortable. He was holding out some hope that he wouldn’t be there that long, that maybe someone, anyone would notice he was gone. Mycroft would have to notice, maybe at some point Greg would stop by the flat and realize that he was gone and they would start looking for him. They had to notice he was gone, they had to have seen or heard something and they had to come for him quickly or he was certain that Moran was going to kill him with whatever he had in mind for him.

Sherlock turned himself onto his side so he was facing the wall once more, his arms holding his chest as he hid his face from the dim light they had provided to disorient him. He focused on everything else he could have. He needed to learn to focus again if he was going to survive the next few days or weeks once everything set in.


	14. Standing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains Violence

_For once in a long while the kitchen table was cleared off and had something other than chemicals covering it. The white sheet that was laid over the surface was less for appeal and more for the fact that John had decided it would be their makeshift surgical area since he had refused to go to the hospital._

_“Well get up there.” John huffed as he entered the kitchen with his kit in hand, Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes slightly before he hopped up on the table and unbuttoned his shirt slightly and pulled out his arm for his friend to inspect it. John’s hands had warmed the latex, making the glove warm as he examined the wound he had received why chasing down a suspect. Sherlock wouldn’t admit it, but he had failed to see the rebar from sticking out of the side of the broken down wall until it had sliced through his shirt and digging into his skin._

_“Honestly, one would think that you would have been more observant.” John muttered with a shake of his head as he wiped off the broken skin with peroxide, the wound bubbling and the smell that was associated with hospitals filled Sherlock’s nose as John threaded the needle he was going to use to give him stitches with. It wasn’t deep enough that John had insisted that Sherlock go to the hospital, but John was going to stitch it up anyway._

_The numbing agent burned more than the needle that pricked his skin to administer it and the tugging sensation as his skin was sewn back together was strange and not one that was delightful._

_“Do keep it clean and bandaged will you? The last thing you need it an infection for forgetting to take care of yourself.” John ordered as he slathered a thin layer of antibiotic cream before placing the non-stick gauze over the neat stitch work before wrapping it to hold it in place._

Sherlock was yanked awake as hands grabbed his arms, yanking him to his feet. A groan escaped his lips as his body stretched uncomfortably.

“Did you have a nice rest sleeping beauty?” Sebastian purred in his ear, his muscles tensing at the breath against his neck.

“Lemme go.” Sherlock protested as he pulled against the hands on his arms, but his body protested the movement. Everything ached from the beating from the day before, more than it had when they had dumped him back into his cell.

“I am far from finished with you yet.” Moran replied as he began to pull Sherlock from the room, his feet dragging across the floor once more, his body dead weight as he refused to facilitate his movement from room to room.

“Now, Now, no need to be so difficult.” Moran said as he dragged him a little further than before. But Sherlock didn’t reply as his abductor opened the door to the new room. The detective’s blood ran cold as he heard the rattling of chains when they moved towards the center of the room. That was when he began to fight back. He wiggled his body and jabbed his elbows backwards, but it was no use.

Sebastian had let go of one of his arms and he lunged forward, but that did nothing to stop Moran from slapping the rusted cuff onto the arm he still had a grip on. Despite how he felt, Sherlock fought against the restraint, it was the same set up as the one in Serbia, the chains attached to the opposite walls, ready to stretch him out and hold him in place once his legs gave out. The detective fought back to the best of his ability, striking his captor across the face. The sound echoed in the room and time stopped. Sherlock watched as Moran’s hands curled into fists and he had a few seconds before his body hit the wall, the chains rattling as they settled on the floor. Everything was out of focus as he was dragged into the middle of the room. The Sniper slapping the cuff on rather viciously.

There was a little resistance as Sherlock allowed his body to sag for a moment before he made his feet support him. His arms held out at the sides, the metal digging into the delicate flesh of his wrists.

Moran stood before him, tsking lightly before he pulled a knife from his pocket, the blade switching out with a click, but all Sherlock did was stare up at him, his jaw set. The blade slipped between the shirt he was wearing at the hoodie he had over it. The fabric ripping against the blade rang through the room and Sherlock just glared the man who preceded to cut the jumper off of his body.

The fabric fell to the floor with a soft thud before it was kicked across the room, Moran gazed at him for a moment before leaning in.

“I hope you missed Serbia, for what it’s worth, I’ll make sure that I can reenact most of it for you.” The man took a step back and Sherlock lunged forward as much as he could, however it was useless. The metal dug into his wrists a bit more as they pulled his arms back towards the walls he was attached to.

Sherlock’s eyes followed Moran as he walked towards the back to room, noticing for the first time a table, thought what it held was rather hard to see with the shadows that cloaked it. His eyes trying to distinguish what had been grabbed from the surface before Moran turned around, though it became apparent when the man approached him, the pipe hitting his palm with that echo caused when skin makes contact with another surface. His eyes grew wide at the sight, the pipe had been one of the main instruments they had used on him when they were interrogating him back in Serbia. His sides gave a twinge at the thought. It whistled through the air, Moran swinging it as if it was some type of bat.

It made contact, his body jerking to the side with the impact, his side feeling as if it were on fire. He refused to make a sound as it impacted his body again. The blows rained down on him similar to the ones from the day before, hard enough to hurt, not hard enough to break anything.

“They weren’t lying, you don’t make a sound, pity.” Moran stated after ten blows to each side, Sherlock’s breath came out with a wheeze on the exhale. This seemed like an easy way to vent his frustrations, but at this rate he may just be beaten to death.  “That will change though, I can assure you that.” The pipe hung at his side, but like before, Sherlock was putting up a resistance, he wasn’t going to give in for Moran just like he hadn’t given in to the Serbian’s.

“Don’t get too comfortable with that look Mr. Holmes, I have things planned out for you.” Moran moved towards the wall away from the door, his shoes dragging along the ground as he dropped the pipe with a clank. “I highly suggest you don’t get comfortable with anything really, unless you enjoy being set up for disappointment.

The sniper toed the metal cylinder out of the way as he examined the chain, the detective’s eyes on him as he began to unwind it from the peg that was holding it. It clanked as it was unwound, falling to the ground in a heap. Then there was a sharp tug and all of the relief that the chain around his wrist had tightened. Moran rewound the first chain before doing the same to its partner on the other side. The muscles in his back and shoulders ached with protest and his wrists screamed at the sharp edge leaving it’s imprint on his skin.

“That should do it for now.” Moran smiled as he moved to the door.

“You’re not returning me to my cell?”

“Oh no, you see Sherlock, this is more fun, well for me anyway.” Sebastian lingered in the door for a second or two before vanishing into the halls, the door shutting with a loud thud. The silence that filled the cell was deafening just as much as the buzzing sound that filled his ears. He was growing exhausted as time passed and his muscles had begun to protest begin stretched out like this for so long.

It seemed as if the tissue in his shoulders were tearing and at was a possibility, he had been up for what seemed like hours, everything ached and there was no relief if he tried to sink to his knees. His shifted his weight trying to ease the pressure, his survival instincts failing to kick in like it had when he was captured before. A part of him didn’t want him to make it through this, then he wouldn’t have to be dealing with the aftermath of this alone and he wouldn’t be a burden to the staff that would have to take care of him. Then there was a part of him, a smaller part of him that was holding on to some hope that someone would notice he was gone. His hope was leaning on Greg.

Greg had told him that the moment his name had been cleared, he would go and check on him personally, he hoped that that it happened soon, that the DI would be sent to baker street and notice that he was no long there. He was holding out hope that someone would save him before things got worse.


	15. Minor Detail

They were preventing him from sleeping, every fifteen minutes someone would walk by, something, a fist or a pipe of some kind, slamming against the door in order to keep him awake, and it was killing him. He was exhausted and it was so hard for him to stay awake, sleep was an escape from the act he had been standing like that for what he figured was at least three days. His shoulders were swollen and his feet felt as if they were standing on nails, ever shift in his weight caused a sharp pain to travel up the back of his legs making him more than uncomfortable.

His body was sagging down for what may have been the hundredth time that hour when the door swung open causing him to jump. He looked towards the door, his vision doubling and blurring slightly, his mind failing to comprehend that Moran had just entered. The man laughing deep in his throat as he approached Sherlock, leisurely pulling the key from his pocket before undoing the cuff, an amused look on his face as Sherlock dropped to the ground in an ungraceful heap.

Sebastian usually wasn’t the type of hit man that enjoyed watching his victim suffer, that had been more of Jim’s forte, watching them squirm. However, he was looking forward to dragging this out, watching his beloved’s enemy suffer at his hands. He had no idea how long he was going to keep his new toy, considering he was just getting started. But for however long it was, Sebastian knew that he wasn’t going to end it until he had the great Sherlock Holmes begging for death.

“You look a bit tired Holmes” He commented as he looked down at the man on the floor, smirking at the fact even in this state he was trying to push himself up. “But being kept awake for three days doesn’t really help I am assuming, I suppose they are wrong then. You aren’t a complete machine.”

Sherlock was only vaguely aware that someone was releasing him, his legs failing to hold him up once both cuffs were undone. What he wanted his body to do and what it actually did were two different things. His body impacted the floor with a thud causing everything to ache, especially his chest and knees. He could hear Moran above him, but nothing was processing other than the fact the dead feeling in his arms was slowly diminishing, replaced with an intense pounding feeling of blood flowing through the tissue.

He wanted to do nothing more than sleep, but it seemed as if that was impossible as he was dragged to his feet, his head lolling to the side as he tried to keep his eyes open but it was getting harder and harder to. The person who was holding him upright was laughing at him, he could feel the vibrations in their hands, but he didn’t care, not anymore. The darkness was encroaching on his vision and the fight he was having with his body was losing as his eye lids fluttered before closing completely.

_Sherlock was fighting sleep as hard as he could, the case files spread out on the floor in front of him as he ran his hands over his face before running them through his hair. This was one of the more difficult cases he had had in a while and the fact he couldn’t find a link was beginning to rub his nerves the wrong way. He had argued with John about sleeping and how it would do nothing more than waste his valuable time. Though sleep did not sound that bad at the moment, he couldn’t think that clearly anymore, no new details were registering in his head and nothing was making sense, even the notes he had jotted down didn’t make sense and he was certain that a few simple words were misspelled beyond recognition. He was growing frustrated at the fact he couldn’t solve this case and the fact his transport seemed to be failing him was just as aggravating. He huffed to himself as he stood, the room spinning slightly at the quick movement. He stumbled a bit more as he tried to keep his frame upright as he made his way into the kitchen to make coffee. The caffeine was doing nothing for him in fact it had done nothing more than drain him further. Sherlock groaned in annoyance as he placed the empty mug on the coffee table, setting back to work._

_There was a warm hand on his shoulder, startling him. His body jumped in surprise as the detective looked around feverishly, his mind trying to comprehend where he was._

_“You alright there?” John asked from above him. Sherlock gazed around for a moment before his mind supplied that he was in their sitting room._

_“Fine.” Sherlock mumbled as he righted himself, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands as he took a deep breathe. He didn’t remember falling asleep, well more like passing out. He remembered making the pot of cold coffee that sat on the counter next to the container of what was most likely ears. His mug sat on the coffee table half full and just as cold._

_“You don’t look fine. This is why I say Sleep is important Sherlock.” John scolded him and Sherlock huffed petulantly._

_“Sleeping is boring.” He muttered to the doctor as he grabbed the mug from the table and stepped over the mess he had made on the floor._

_“Oh of course that is why you were passed out on the floor five minutes ago_

_“That is just a minor detail.”_

It felt like he was suffocating as he came to, his face pressed down in the thin mattress, he was in a daze, his eyes darting around for a moment as he tried to think.

“J-John?” He called as he rolled over as his mind kicked back online. The suffocating feeling was no longer do to the fact his face was pressed into fabric and was more now because of the fact he was in a cell, in some compound, being held captive. John didn’t want him anymore, Molly didn’t either. Greg did thought and that was enough to keep him going, that was going to be the string of hope he was going to cling to.

Sherlock closed his eyes again as he tried to remember when he was dragged back into the cell, but nothing came to him, the last thing he remember was being pulled up from the floor. Meaning they had dragged him there after he had passed out from exhaustion. That had given his beaten and battered body some time to heal itself.

Carefully he sat up, cataloging the dull aches that he had, wondering how long he had been unconscious. The fact that Moran had let him sleep long enough to wake on his own was unsettling. They were toying with him. The rooms lit by dying light bulbs and practically no windows making it impossible to tell the time of day to the fact he had no idea how long it had been since he was snatched from the mattress at the den disoriented his senses.

Sherlock’s eyes scanned the room as he tried to keep himself from thinking about how much of his life had been thrown away by some stranger who had played his friends like he played poker. And for a moment he wondered if John would have done the same if he had been in Moran’s shoes. The ex-army doctor had killed a man to protect him less than 48 hours after meeting, he had been moved in 48 hours after Sherlock had given him the address after Mike had introduced them and before this mess that had been created around them. John was well he had been rather protective of him.

It was then he knew he had to get out of there, he would do what he had done in Serbia, he would bolt. Make a run for it and hope that he would be able to escape and if he was able to get outside of the compound doors then he would consider how he would get back to London, but if he didn’t then he wouldn’t wonder about what could have happened if he did.


	16. Dead end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains Violence

As soon as the sound of footsteps met his ears, Sherlock had taken off one of his trainers and had thrown it at the dying light bulb, shielding his face as the hot glass broke, covering the floor with translucent shards. He skirted around the walls of the room, positioning himself near the door and waited. It wasn’t the best idea he had, there were so many things that could go wrong before he even managed to make it out of the room, but to him, this was worth it, at least for the moment.

His breath hitched as he heard the familiar footsteps approaching, his hands were getting sweaty and his heart was drumming in his chest, the blood rushing through his veins drowning out the sound of his breathing. The anxiety was building and he swore he was going to be sick even before Moran opened the door. The sound of the lock tumbling as the key was turned made his stomach jump into his throat, his breath caught as the door swung open and Moran stepped inside.

“What the…” He muttered as he looked into the darkness before moving in deeper, his shoes crunching on the glass as the detective inched towards the door, his eyes not moving from the figure who was trying to figure out why there was glass on the floor. Sherlock bolted through the door as he heard Moran’s foot connect with the shoe he had thrown.

“YOU BASTARD!” Moran yelled as Sherlock took off down the hall, his gait uneven with the slight difference in his legs caused by the missing shoe. He stumbled slightly as he slipped it off, throwing it down the hall he had taken off from. His socked feet slapped against the concrete as he ran, his sides beginning to hurt as he tried to navigate through the halls. Somewhere off in the distance an alarm had been sounded, the lights beginning to flash on and off.

Sherlock began to try the various doors that lined the hall he had ended up in. The detective was vigorously trying the different door knobs, finding them to be all locked. His efforts to hide were futile as the sound of footsteps echoed through the halls. He looked around quickly and took off down the nearest corridor. His mistake to run was now more than evident, he didn’t know which way lead to an exit, nor did he know exactly where he was location wise. This was like escaping from Serbia, minus Mycroft and all the chance of being recaptured.

“HOLMES” He heard Moran shout somewhere close, two hallways down actually his mind supplied. “I AM GOING TO GET YOU FOR THIS HOLMES”

His heart rammed against his chest as he rounded the next corner going down the hallway as fast as he could, his stomach dropping when he came to a halt, his hands frantically pounding against the wall. Dead end. He spun quickly as footsteps approached, the world spinning at the sudden movement. His heart dropping into this stomach as Moran and a handful of men rounded the corner. Saying that Moran was angry was an understatement, he was furious, as if Sherlock’s attempt to escape was a personal attack on him. In his hand was the trainer the detective had left in one of the hallways to make his escape easier.

“And to think I was kind enough to let you rest.” Moran’s voice was low and cold as he spoke. “Well I will never make that mistake again.” His captor looked at his shoe for a moment before looking back at him. He took a step forward as he cocked his arm back before throwing the shoe. Sherlock physically recoiled as the show slammed against the wall, the sound it made echoed in the confined space.

“I think now would be a rather nice time to start making you regret your pitiful existence Holmes.” The casual tone was misleading, as were Moran’s calm measured steps toward him, but nothing good would come of this, in fact Sherlock was certain he just signed his death warrant with his stunt.

The impact to his gut sent him doubling over in pain as he gasped and Moran just chuckled lowly in his throat at his obvious discomfort.

“I am so surprised someone as smart as you would do something so stupid.” He commented as one hand wrapped around his upper arm, the other grasping him behind the neck. His sock clad feet made it easier for him to be dragged. The group of men that had followed Moran had dispersed, leaving Sherlock alone with the man, whose grip continued to tighten.

The room Moran had taken him a few days before was open and waiting for their return. The way he was being held by the blonde made it easier for him to be thrown into the room. Sherlock’s body stumbled as he tried to catch himself but the force in which he had been tossed made that impossible. Moran slammed the door shut, the loud clang caused Sherlock to jump as he looked up to see the menacing figure looming before him.

A foot connected with his side with such force this time something did break, the sound of a few ribs cracking met his ears. His body was picked up from the floor and slammed into the wall, Sherlock tried hard not to focus on his discomfort. Moran’s body was pressed firmly against his , his breath hot on his neck making him shiver with discomfort.

“Trying to run was stupid and futile, No one is looking for you, no one wants you, no matter what they say,” He sneered “You are useless to them now. The world has moved on passed the poor pathetic Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock shook his head, refusing to believe anything that Moran had said, it couldn’t be true, could it? Mycroft would have had to notice by now, maybe Greg would have dropped by to see how he was holding up regardless of he consequences.

“You’re wrong.” Sherlock choked out and Moran chuckled.

“Oh, No, I am right remember? I am the reason you have no one left. Do you really think that your brother would really want to watch over you? You are old enough to be on your own, he doesn’t have time to baby sit you.” He sneered as he released Sherlock’s shirt before grabbing a fist full of his curls to drag him towards the chains that laid on the floor.

A whimper escaped Sherlock’s lip, the grasp on his hair painful, he could feel hair being pulled from his scalp as he was yanked to his feet. He would never forget the look on Moran’s face as he recuffed his arms to the chains. The detective watched as the sniper moved to tighten the restraints tighter than before. Joints were popping and the burn of tissue tearing spread through his upper back, shoulders, and arms. All the while the metal of the cuffs dug into his skin once more.

Moran moved towards the table he set up in the back of the room, his choice not taking as long as it had before, emerging back into the light with a whip wound up in his hands. It was long, thin and the sound it made slicing through the air was one he had hoped to never hear again. The feeling when it made contact with his skin was indescribably, but it was somewhere along the lines of a hot metal rod being placed against his skin.

The fabric of his shirt did nothing to protect him as it was torn to shreds with ever hit. Unlike the Serbians who had focused primarily on his back and sides, Moran had no preference on the skin he marked up: Chest, back, legs, and even a few licks crossed his neck and face. Red welts appeared on his skin alongside new marks that would eventually scar. Some of the deeper ones on his back that had begun to heal, were reopened as the whip took a similar path on his skin. Just like before blood began to stain the waist band of his sweats.

At some point he began to whimper with every hit, his hands curling into fists as he tried to deal with the anguish he felt. And the overall feeling was making him nauseous to the point bile was burning the back of his throat. The last strike came across his chest, fast and hard leaving behind a large gash that began to bead blood. His captor took a few steps back as to admire his handy work, the whip stained with his blood curled back up neatly and tossed to the table where it impacted the surface with a thud.

Sherlock was wheezing, his broken ribs making breathing difficult and the stinging sensation was making him question whether the task was worth it or not. Sebastian’s hand grasped his face, making him look at him, the same glint that was ever present in Moriarty’s face was present is his as well.

“No one is looking for you, no one cares about you anymore, and guess what kid, and you’re going to die here.” The touch on his face lingered more than Sherlock liked and the way Moran had been staring at him since this session began were akin to those he had seen back when people found him attractive enough to look at before his mouth got in the way. The implications behind the looks were unsettling, just as unsettling as the words Moran spoke before he departed for the evening.


	17. Mycroft

It had been weeks since Greg had laid eyes on Sherlock. It was strange and unsettling at the fact the younger detective hadn’t so much as so much as popped up in the distance of a crime scene like he expected. But he assumed it was due to the fact that something had changed during the two years he was away that made him stay away as requested. At least until the investigation that would either clear his name or condemn him further. The detective inspector sighed, his patience running out for internal affairs to wrap up. His desire to check on the kid was increasing and he worried that Sherlock had been recaptured by old demons, laying somewhere high out of his mind.

The DI had been finalizing the latest case report when Sally appeared in the doorway, an unpleasant but surprised look on her face.”

“Internal affairs just announced they have finished their investigation” Greg looked at her eyebrows raised, his palms starting to sweat and his mouth was going dry. Had they really finished their investigation? God it was about time,

“And?” He asked as she held out a folder thick with reports, papers that had most likely been written by various officers that he had worked with and that had worked with Sherlock. They were evaluations, snippets of Sherlock’s background, the cases that they had worked on, and infamous case that had started this all.

Greg extended his arm, hand open as he sat up straight. The weight of the folder in his hand was rather impressive, more than he thought it to be. He laid it on his desk with a gentle thug, ad opened it slowly. Sitting on the top off the documents they had collected was the press release, the one that would be given at the press conference later that day. Greg swallowed, his heart in his mouth before reading: SHERLOCK HOLMES TO BE VINDICATED AND CLEARED OF ALL CHARGES. The tension that he didn’t notice settle into his muscles began to melt away.

The Detective inspector closed the cover to the file, he didn’t need to read anymore. Quickly he stood, pulling on his coat before fishing his gloves from his pocket and grabbing his scarf from the back of his chair.

“Where are you going?” Sally asked as he pulled on his gloved and fixed his scarf to hang around his neck.

“I need to go and see someone.” He replied as he pushed passed her, taking quick strides.

“If I didn’t know better, I would think you were going to go see a freak!” She called after him, he smirked to himself as he turned to take the stairs down to the garage. If only she knew.

The drive to Baker Street seemed to take longer than it used to but that could have been because one, He had not been there in ages, or two, because he was just so anxious to get there time seemed to be moving too slowly for him. He turned on to the street he had not been down since he had dropped John off the day of the fall, it seemed so strange to park his cruiser in front of the black door that had the brass numbers of 221B.

He turned off the car and took a deep breath as he stepped out and looked up at the window, half expecting to see Sherlock standing there, looking down at him with his violin in hand. However, he wasn’t there, the windows were dark and empty with the curtains closed. Greg reached the door in a few steps and was rather surprised to find that the street door was locked this time of day.

Quietly, he was thankful that he still had the key that Sherlock had given him all those years back. The key slid into the lock and turned with some hesitancy. The door creaked open revealing a dark and cold building that made his heart pound and his stomach roll. He inched his way inside, eyes scanning the place as he made his way to the stairs. It had this empty, vacant, unlived quality that vacant houses have and it worried him. He had never been in such an empty Baker Street, nor had he seen so much dust even for someone like Sherlock who thought it was eloquent.

Sherlock’s living space was just as empty and as cold as the rest of the place, and that made Greg’s blood run cold. Guilt creeping into his chest as he looked around, looking for any signs that Sherlock had just gone out, but there was no such luck. Everything that was edible was past date and growing questionable organisms, the bed was undisturbed, and a medical kit was splayed open on the bathroom counter.

An anxious feeling began to fill his chest as he shook his head, How Long had he been gone and no one noticed? By the state of the place, it had been a few weeks at the most. Greg cursed himself for telling Sherlock to keep his distance, if he had never made such a request, then maybe, just maybe he would have noticed.

The DI took off down the stairs, two at a time, pulling his phone from his pocket, scrolling down to the unnamed contact before clicking call.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft had not expected to hear his mobile vibrating against the surface of his desk nor had he expected to see the number that flashed across the screen.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, what do I owe this pleasure?” Mycroft asked as he answered his phone, wondering what his little brother could have gotten into that warranted a call.

“Is he with you?” Greg asked with no greeting

“Is who with me?”

“Sherlock!”

“No, why would he be?”

“Because he isn’t at his flat, he hasn’t been there for a while by the looks of it.”

Mycroft went silent. When was the last time _he_ had seen his little brother? The answer to that was the day that he had left to go and see John. He had just been so busy with the interworking of the government and the foreign elections that had been going on to notice. And now there was a price to pay for his negligence.

“I’ll get some of my people on looking at the tapes, I’ll see when the last time he was seen at Baker street was.” And it was with that, he hung up. Seconds later he was sending out messages to his team, wanting them to review the footage from around Baker Street immediately.

Half an hour later, he had the footage he had asked for, the last glimpse of Sherlock was taken nearly three weeks before. Mycroft ran his hands over his face, Nearly 3 weeks, it took less time to realize that he had been taken as a captive by the Serbian sector of Moriarty’s web. He could have been anywhere by now.

“ANTHEA” He called as he stood pocketing his phone as he made his way to the door, his assistant appearing seconds later.

“I want everyone we have available assigned to looking for Sherlock Holmes.” She nodded and took a step to the side as Mycroft walked passed her.

“Where are you going Sir?” She asked as he made his way down the hall way.

“My Brother is missing, again, I am not going to sit around and not look for him.” He commented. There was too much at stake here, and it wasn’t the security of the British Government. It was his brother’s wellbeing and life, and that wasn’t something he was willing to gamble with.


	18. Fading

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains Violence

Moran smirked to himself as he stood in the doorway of the cell that held Sherlock. His cold eyes slowly roaming over the detective battered and bloody body.  His eyes lingering here and there as he took in the sight. The detective was trembling slightly enough for the chains to rattle slightly. His pale expanse of skin marked by welts and lacerations caused by his whipping. The marks outlined in red from irritation and the onset of infection.

Moran had the chains as tight as they would go without dislocating his shoulders. His arms stretched out as far as they could go, held in place y the rusted cuffs that were digging into the soft flesh of his wrist, rubbing them raw, making them bloody. His shirt hug off his body, most of it ripped to shreds by the whip, rigid with dry blood.

Sherlock refused to look at him as the detective shifted his body in an attempt to lessen the strain on his aggravated shoulders.

“Aren’t you just a pretty little thing now?All battered and bruised” Sebastian spoke, as he moved into the room, closing the door softly behind him. Sherlock looked pained, haggard, and lost at the sniper’s words making Moran chuckle.

“No need to look like that.” Moran stated as he took several steps towards Sherlock, the detective watching his every move as if he couldn’t truly figure out his motives for this shift in behavior. He grinned as he stepped into Sherlock’s space, the brunette recoiling as much as they chains would allow, but that wasn’t much more than half an inch if he was that lucky. His body tensed as his captor reached out and grasped the remaining fabric of his shirt, the touch lingering for a moment before it was ripped off in one smooth, yet painful movement.

Sherlock gasped before a whimper of pain escaped his lips as he body moved with the shirt as the fabric ripped and pulled against his skin, aggravating the welts and pulling away the scabbing that was just beginning to form.

Moran stood there, holding the shirt in his hand before tossing it to the floor, his eyes taking in his handiwork.

Sherlock looked away, feeling so naked, so vulnerable as Moran looked over the marks he had caused, the man getting a kick out of the pain he had caused. He yelped, his head jerking upwards as he felt the warm and unwelcome touch of Jim Moriarty’s pet on his skin. His fingers tracing the outlines of the lacerations on his chest and sides. His face unreadable, but there was something in his eyes that was unsettling to say the least, something that he couldn’t place, couldn’t name, and it made his stomach churn.

“Are you ready for another round Holmes?” Moran asked as he removed his hands from Sherlock’s body. “I don’t think that my last lesson made an impact whatsoever” Sherlock’s eyes widened minutely as Moran smiled, taking a few steps back towards the table.

* * *

 

Greg hadn’t spoken to anyone since he had returned to his office after finding Sherlock’s flat empty. He didn’t know where to begin looking for the younger man at, he had no idea what he had been into, nor did he have any idea if John or Molly had heard from him since Greg couldn’t speak to him. The detective leaned back in his chair, running his hands over his face groaning, there were so many things that could be wrong, that could be going wrong, and no one had known that Sherlock was gone for that amount of time. Why hadn’t they noticed sooner? He knew the answer to that question already, Sherlock was known to vanish for weeks, but that didn’t excuse the negligence.

He didn’t bother to look up as a knock echoed into his office, he had the door shut and the blinds down for a reason, he had even deferred all of his cases to Sally and Dimmock until he could get a grasp on all of this. He didn’t even look up when the door opened, he did, however, look up when the man on the other side of his desk cleared his throat and spoke.

“Sulking in your office is not going to find him faster” Greg bolted up quickly, startled at the voice that spoke. His eyes locked on to Mycroft, who stood in front of him, looking nearly as old as he felt at that moment.

“I thought field work wasn’t your area?”

“This is different”

Greg nodded slowly, that he could understand, most things that concerned Sherlock were always handled differently and this was no exception.

“Do you have an idea on where to start?” Greg asked as he looked up at the older Holmes, wasting no time on niceties, those could wait.

“We have some footage from a few weeks ago that has him leaving the flat, but nothing that has him returning. Upon review Sherlock had been doing that for at least a week. He would leave in around dusk and return around dawn, a schedule that he kept during the time he was using quiet often.”

“You think he was using again?” Greg asked as he ran his hand through his silver hair

“It is a possibility, there are only a few instances that Sherlock left his flat and he was gone no longer than twenty minutes. No one appeared to have stopped by for a chat. He most likely alone in that case. You and I already know what idle hands and an idle mind can do to him Gregory.”

“That doesn’t seem right, he still had Molly and John, are you sure that no one showed up at Baker Street?” He asked, he couldn’t believe it. Molly and John cared about Sherlock just as much as he did and he figured that they would have been happy to see him.

“Four different individuals looked over the tape, there is no one other that Sherlock going in and out of 221B and when he does leave during the day he isn’t gone long enough to visit.”

“What do you think happened then?”

“I don’t know, but I do tend on finding out, this may be easier if you come with me of course, You did discover he was missing and when we find him a friendly face would be more than welcome to him, I am sure”

* * *

 

The whip cracked through the air before impacting his body, Sherlock crying out in pain as the leather cut through the legs of his sweat pants. Sherlock couldn’t move no matter how much he had tried, his wrists were shimmering with blood as were his sides and portions of his back. Tears had started to slide down his cheeks, dripping to the ground as he tried not to sob. He had no idea how long Moran had been at it, but he didn’t think he could last much longer, his body was trembling from the pain and his empty stomach was rolling.

“No.One.Is.Looking.for.You.” his captor’s words were punctuated with a hit from the instrument in his hands. And then it all stopped, the whip fell to Moran’s side and Sherlock looked up at the man as he tossed it aside.

“That should be enough for now, don’t need to dying before I am finished with you.” He stated as he moved to unlock the chains that held him up. Sherlock fell against him and he hissed in pain as he moved his shoulders, the feeling of fabric rubbing against his wounds were nearly too much to handle, the entire situation was getting to be too much for him to handle.


	19. Questions

The car ride was silent except for the sound of breathing and the soft clicking of Mycroft typing away at his phone at a rapid pace, his face lined with deep concentration and thought. Greg leaned against the door, staring out the window, occasionally sending glances towards the other man in the car. It had been years since they had been in a car just like this, at least ten. It hadn’t been long after he had begun to consult Sherlock on some cases did he find himself in the back of a similar Mercedes’s being whisked off to some secret location to be questioned about his motives and bribed to sell information on the younger man, which he had denied. Mycroft, who had been straighter forward with him then he had been with John on his relation with Sherlock, rode back with him to his flat.  The car ride had been this silent, but it the silence bad been more tense than urgent as it was now. That only stuck with him, not because of the fact he had been more or less kidnapped but because of the soft, quiet, “Thank You” he heard as he stood from the car.

They had no real idea where to begin their search. Sherlock had kept himself hidden from the camera’s well enough that they only caught him coming and going from baker street but they had no idea where he had gone. The dealers he use to go to score his cocaine from had been arrested a few years before, since then, he jumped from dealer to dealer depending on what he needed. As for the Crack dean he had most likely stayed at to come down from his high, they didn’t know which one. There were plenty around London and no one would remember who came and who went and it had been weeks back, they patrons wouldn’t remember back that far. However what they did have were two other people who may have seen Sherlock and that could point them into the right direction.

The neighborhood they had found themselves in looked familiar, and it was. Greg had been there months before to give John the box that held the things of Sherlock’s he had found while cleaning up his office. He hadn’t spoken to John since that day, but he had heard from a few people that had seen him, John had gotten engaged someone he worked with at the clinic.

The Mercedes pulled up to the front of the building John had been living in, Greg finally sitting up straight, fixing his suit and the ruffles in his hair caused by the way he was leaning into the door, Mycroft pocketed his phone, looking towards Greg, his face unreadable as always.

“Shall we go have a discussion with Doctor Watson?” He asked as he opened his door, the Detective nodded and followed suit. The doors closed in sync and they walked side by side up to the door and knocked.

 

* * *

 

John had tried to shove Sherlock from his mind after the man had scurried off the night he had reappeared and for the most part he had succeeded, however there had been some slip ups. He had thought that a few people at the clinic had been him, he thought he had seen the detective outside his flat a few weeks after that, but they weren’t him. He had prepared himself to see the man lurking everywhere trying to explain himself like he had tried to do that night he went to propose to Mary, but he didn’t, and John was alright with that, he didn’t need Sherlock Holmes in his life, but that didn’t prevent him from thinking about the man from time to time. It didn’t make him think that maybe that night was just a hallucination caused by his anger towards the man, after all wouldn’t Sherlock have made an announcement he had returned?

The Doctor had not been expecting any company that day, Mary was over and they were discussing work, possible wedding venues and who to invite to their pending nuptials. Things had been quiet and lovely and for the first time in a long while Tim wasn’t at his door asking for something or another with his anxious body language. Though that came to a crashing halt as a knock echoed through the flat, He closed his eyes and sighed to himself as he got up.

“What do you want now Ti-“John had begun to say as he opened the door,his eyes falling on two people he thought he wouldn’t see again, well that he rather wouldn’t see again. His eyes travelling from Greg to Mycroft. His annoyance growing to anger at the sight of them, bubbling under the surface.

“Hello John” The Detective Greeted but John remained silent, his eyes still focused on Mycroft’s face

“I don’t know what you are doing here, but I want you to leave.” John stated as he looked to Greg. “I want you both gone.”

“Doctor Watson, The Detective Inspector and I would just like a few words with you.”

“I have nothing to say to either of you” The Doctor insisted shaking his head as he tried to close the door

“John please.” Begged as he wedged his foot between the doorjamb and the door itself, he didn’t even bother to flinch as John attempted to slam the door on his foot.

“No”

“John, it’s about Sherlock, We Just need to know if you’ve seen him in the last month or so.” Greg Spoke up and the slamming against his foot stopped and the Doctor looked up at him.

The hallucination theory he had flew out the window like he had thrown out Sherlock’s belongings, he really had confronted the man on the sidewalk that night as much as he had told himself he had not.

“I haven’t seen him since he popped up unwanted on my doorsteps towards the beginning of November.” John replied as he opened his door slightly, leaning against it. “I told him to get lost.”

Mycroft shifted his eyebrow raised and the look on his face was one that could give people chills and if John was honest, it was rather chilling.

“You told my brother what, Doctor Watson?” He asked his voice just as cold as the look in his eyes, a deep contrast to the shock on Greg’s face at his words.

“I told him to get lost, I didn’t want to see him. I didn’t and I still don’t so the answer to your question is No, I haven’t seen him in the past month.” John answered and Greg swore under his breath causing the Doctor to knit his eyebrows. Mycroft didn’t look that impressed, and more at a loss than anything else. “Why does it matter if I have seen him in the last month?"

“He’s gone missing” Mycroft answered “We were hoping that you had seen him, that you possible had an idea of what had happened to him.”

That was the last thing John had expected to hear. He thought that maybe Sherlock had sent them to work things out between them, but missing? How could that happen?

“Maybe he’s hiding out in one of the drug den’s he frequented while we were living together.” John supplied and both officials gave him scathing looks that made him take a step back.

“John, Sherlock wasn’t using when he was living with you.”

“Doctor Watson whatever would give you the idea that my brother was actively using when you were his flat mate?” Mycroft asked as he took a step forward.

It was at that moment Tim happened to open his door and John looked over at his direction, There was something painted on his neighbor’s face he had seen before, too many times if he thought about it. It was the same look suspects and criminals had before they bolted.

“He did, he was the one that gave me that idea” John muttered as they both turned around, Tim looking between both of the officials before taking off. Greg didn’t give Mycroft or John a second look as he sprinted after Tim. His feet pounding against the ground as fast as his heart was pounding in his chest. The man looking back over his shoulder every few feet to see if the detective was still following.

The Detective didn’t bother yelling at the man he was chasing down the stairs and out into the streets. The man dogging the people on the sidewalk, weaving in and out of them in an attempt to lose the older man on his heels. Tim turned into an alleyway, still running as fast as he could, his steps slowing down as he saw the chain link fence before he sped up and jumped, his body impacting the flexible surface. He attempted to scurry up and over, but was stopped by the grasp on his legs as Greg yanked him down.

“Smart move, did you really think you could escape?” He hissed as he slammed him not so gently into the wall, twisting his arms behind his back and cuffed him.

“You have no proof I did anything wrong.” Tim panted as Greg pulled him out of the alley

“Then there was no need for you to run when you saw an officer then was there?” Greg asked as they made their way back onto the street and back towards the building they had come.

John and Mycroft stood in silence for a few moments, the Politian looking at his watch for the duration of the time.

“I will be seeing you again, Doctor Watson.” He remarked before heading off, John watched him leave feeling ill at ease. Something wasn’t right.

Mycroft was waiting at the car by the time Greg and Tim made their way back. He was leaning against the door in a very Un-Mycrofty fashion, the door open behind him, and the look on his face more or less spelled out murder.

“Put Mr. Werner in the car, Gregory, we are going to have a little chat with him.”

“You can’t do that!” Tim yelled as Greg shoved him into the back seat of the car.  “How do you even know my last name? You can’t do this!”

“Oh You see, Mr. Werner, I can.” Mycroft smirked as he leaned into the car as Greg slid in “I am the British Government.”

 

* * *

 

Tim was fidgeting profusely as they drove to the location Mycroft had specified to the driver, the man looked from the Politian to the Officer with fear painted on his face, but neither of them paid attention. Mycroft was back to looking at his phone, this time he was most likely looking up information on the man that was accompanying them while Greg tried to figure out where they were going.

They ended up at an abandoned warehouse on the other side of London. The look of which was similar to those in the cop movies Greg watched on his days off when there was nothing else good on. No questions were asked as they exited the vehicle, Greg hauling Tim to his feet before following Mycroft into the building. Their footsteps echoed inside the empty building, giving off the creepy vibe that Mycroft was most likely going for in this situation. In the middle of the main room stood a table and chair under a few of the hanging lights.

“You can’t do this to me” Tim yelled as Greg wrangled him into the chair once they had reached the table, standing behind him to prevent him from fleeing

“But you see I can, and I will.” Mycroft replied as he stood in front of the man on the other side of the table. “I don’t particularly care for people who take joy out of alienating my brother.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about”

“Of course you don’t, that is obviously the reason you ran after hearing a small segment of our conversation.” Mycroft said, keeping his voice even and cool dispite the obvious anger that was hiding under the surface. “We can do this two ways, Mr. Werner, you can cooperate with me and make things easier for yourself, or you can be difficult and we can extract the information from you a different way.”

“You can’t do this, you don’t know anything about me!”

“I know enough about you, Up until three years ago, you didn’t exist, anywhere. You moved in across from John Watson a few weeks after he moved in there himself, you don’t particularly work yet you get a large sum of money deposited into a bank account you recently withdrawn from.”

“How do you know any of that?”

“I told you, I am the British Government, and I know everything.”

“I could be the wrong person for all you know”

“All I want to know is who is paying you and why you turned Doctor Watson against him.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“Very well then, I’ll have some of my _interrogators_ speak to you then” Mycroft stated as he looked at Tim, his hands folded behind his back, the man in the chair stilling for a moment, as if contemplating whether the information he had was worth being tortured.

"You don't Understand!" Tim nearly shouted as he moved in his chair, making it rock and scrap on the concrete floor "He'll Kill me!"

"Then we will protect you." Mycroft added smoothly, Greg looking up at the politician, eyes wide, but the man paid no attention

"Moran is a powerful man! You can't protect me" Tim muttered 

"How do you know I am not more powerful then he is?" Mycroft asked shifting his weight slightly

"You can't Protect me! He has people everywhere" Tim replied and Mycroft finally looked up at Greg the annoyance in his eyes apparent

"Mr. Werner, apparently you aren't grasping the concept that I run this country from behind a desk 365 days a year, now I don't know what you think This man is capable of, but I can assure you that I am more capable then he is, now you can either co-operate with us, or I can just hand you off to someone else to deal with."

“What do I get if I help you?”

“Depends on how valuable your information is to me.” Mycroft responded “Who do you work for?”

“I am a part of Moriarty’s web.”

“He’s dead”

“We are all very well aware of that as we are aware that the web beyond London is mostly gone, but there is someone else in charge now. There was a right hand man, Sebastian Moran.”

“Did he pay you to convince John Watson of anything?”

“Yeah, but the rest of the network is being paid to vilify him to the rest of the world, make sure no one would care or ask questions.”

“What was his motive?”

“He wanted revenge for Moriarty’s death, he blames it all on Holmes, said he was going to make him pay.”

“Do you know where he is at?”

“No. No one does, all orders are assigned Via Text message.” Tim stated and Mycroft nodded as he took a step back from the table, motioning his head for Greg to step away

“Thank you for you help. Mr. Werner.”

“What do I get for helping you? I get to leave right?”

“For your co-operation, you get to have a less painful death.”


	20. Breaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warning: Descriptions of Rape.** the text in between the dividing lines can be skipped for this reason

Mycroft stood by Greg as they watched Tim being carted away by a few of Mycroft’s men that had been on standby. The man was kicking and screaming as they carried him off, but it didn’t affect the politician as he watched with a blank face.

“How are we supposed to find out where this Moran guy is hiding? He didn’t know where he was at.” Greg said as he pointed off towards the door they had taken Tim out of. “We don’t even know what number he uses for those messages.”

“Have some faith in me Gregory.” Mycroft replied as he pulled out his phone once more. Sherlock had always said Mycroft didn’t text, but that was all he seemed to be doing. “I have a few people going through Tim’s belongings, there should be a mobile there that he gets his orders from.”

“Do you think Moran told his agents that he has Sherlock?”

“I don’t think he would have been that arrogant but there is only one to find out.”

“What do we do now?”

“We wait until they find it.”

“We can’t wait for them to find it Mycroft! He might be dead by then!” Greg exclaimed as he looked at the man next to him.

“It is the only thing we can do.” Mycroft sighed as he turned and headed towards the door, Greg following behind, his hands deep in his pockets and an unsatisfied look on his face. There was something unsettling about this, all of this. That man had been afraid of Moran, and that made The Detective uneasy, if he did have Sherlock, Just what kind of danger was he in and would he be alive when they found him?

 

* * *

 

There was no comfortable way to lie, the grungy mattress was rough against his back, the rough edges of his wounds getting stuck on the fibers, making his flesh itch and it pulled when Sherlock went to move to find something, anything that was comfortable. He had resigned to leaning against the wall at a strange angle that left his neck to support his body while his back touched nothing at all. It made breathing more difficult than it already was with his cracked ribs, but it made existing a little more bearable, at least until Moran returned to take his anger out on his body.

He had also started to take the words ‘No one is looking for you’ to heart. No one would be looking for him, why would they? They had all moved on with their lives, John and Molly had, Greg had probably forgotten about him and Mycroft was probably just glad to have Sherlock out of his hair. They didn’t need him, did they? They had already proven they could get along without him, so who was to say that they couldn’t do it again?

Sherlock took a deep breath as he tried to calm the wave of emotions that had begun to wash over him, he couldn’t let Moran see his defenses down, the monster would eat him alive at that point. The detective felt his heart begin to speed up as he heard the all too familiar footsteps approach his cell, how long had it been since Moran has thrown him back in there? Three- Four days? Or somewhere around that time frame he guessed, it was long enough for his wounds to stop seeping blood and to begin to heal.

He held his breath as he heard the lock tumble open and the door swung open, light from the hall spilling in behind Moran, casting an ominous shadow across the room. The detective managed to push himself up from the wall, groaning as he moved. He no longer focused on not making a sound like he had when he had first been taken from the drug den, instead he now focused on making his body work with him.

The Sniper crossed the room, crouching before him, his hand extending to grasp him around the chin. There was something in the other man’s eyes that disturbed him just as much as the lingering hand on his face. The hand withdrew slowly making him cringe at the touch. Sebastian’s hand grasped him around his arms and hauled him to his legs, one arm wrapping around his waist as if to make sure he didn’t attempt to run, but it wasn’t as if he could.

He was no longer in the shape to escape, his body hurt too much and he was relatively weak from having minimal sleep and little to nothing to eat. However that was most likely what Moran had wanted, anything to make him suffer the most.

The room he was taken into was the one he had become accustom to seeing: The long chains that held him in place rested on the floor and the whip and pipe that was used to beat him with laid towards the back of the room on the table. Sherlock didn’t fight as Moran secured the cuffs around his wrists, nor did he complain when he moved around him towards the back table, he did however look up when he heard the door close and the lock click into place. That was different, his eyes flicked over Moran as his heart pounded in his chest once more. He didn’t like the feeling that had come over the room nor did he like the look that had crossed Moran’s face.

The sniper approached him at a leisure pace, a smirk on his lips and his hands were in his pockets, he came to a halt 6 inches or so from the detective.

 “I think we are nearly at the end of our time together Holmes, you surely are looking worse for wear, which is such a pity, I really have enjoyed this.” Moran stated coming an inch closer into Sherlock’s space. “But I must say that I am going to make the best of our remaining time together.”

Sherlock looked up at him, his head tilted slightly as his mind tried to process the meaning behind his captor’s words, trying to lean away from the man as hands came to rest on the unmarked patches of skin on his sides. The meaning becoming clear as the fingers spread out and thumbs began to rub circles onto his skin.

“Is it true, what they say about you? That you are a virgin?” Moran’s face was so close to his that he could make out the brand of body spray he had used that morning.

“Virginity is a construct of society.” Sherlock muttered, his voice dying slightly in his throat. His heart pounding against his chest as his breath caught in his throat before coming out in a gasp as the fingers dug into his sides.

“Is that so?” He asked his hands slowly wandering, making Sherlock’s body tense more than it already had. Moran began to circle him slowly, hands lingering on his body as he did so. However, Sherlock didn’t answer, instead he tried to move his body away from the touch of his captor, panic beginning to set in.

“I do have to say, it would be such a pity if you had to die a virgin.” The bottom of his stomach dropped out as Moran paused, at his side, chuckling to himself as he watched the fear and realization set in on the detectives face. The rattling of chains filled the room as Sherlock began to fight, pulling on the restraints, not caring if the cuffs were digging into his skin, he was trying to get himself away from the other man as much as he could, but the chain’s wouldn’t allow any further movement.

Moran was behind him in a heartbeat, the hands returning to his sides as he tried to distance himself from the situation. Cold air wrapped around his body as his sweats were discarded somewhere, hitting the ground with the same soft thud his shirt had made. The Sniper’s hands wandered his body uninvitingly, his stomach rolling as he tried to distance himself from his situation, but it wasn’t happening, there was nothing else to focus on. There was nothing else to focus on other than more pain and anguish that had lasted over the last few years.

He shut his eyes tightly and his hands clenched as the sound of a zipper filled the air as the hands that had been roaming his body grasped his hips hard enough to leave bruises. He tried to tell himself that this wasn’t happening, that this didn’t matter his body was just transport.

A scream ripped through his throat as pain shot through his body as he was violently entered. He feels sick as his stomach rolls with the pain and he is now more focused on not vomiting up the bile that is burning in his throat then the blood that is trickling down his leg as the man behind him moves more violently then one should start out.

Moran chuckles behind him, mocking him and the whimpers of pain that escape his lips as tears burn in his eyes before they finally cascade down his face.

“J-J-John” He stammers out and his attacker leans in and laughs in his ear, the warm breath sickening to his senses. But John is the only word he knows, it is the only word his mind associates with the word help.

“Crying out for your little friend, No one is looking for you Holmes, no one cares, not even your precious John.” Moran reminds him as he pulls his body back, straining Sherlock’s shoulders with the chains.

“S-Stop.. P-please” Sherlock managed as he pulled against the cuffs around his wrists once more, trying to get away, trying to shut up Moran and the voices in his head that are expressing the same words.”P-please… stop…”

Sherlock is not sure how much times passes before his captor reaches his climax and removes himself from his body. There is no more fight left in him as Moran fixes himself up, instead the detective hangs limply from his arms, the tears still streaming down his face. Nothing feels the same anymore, something in his chest feels off, broken and the rest of his body feels tainted. He flinches away from the touch to his face and he manages to move his body slightly away before going limp once more.

He is shivering now, the nausea setting in, as well as the exhausted feeling that has taken him over besides the pain as shock begins to set in and he wants nothing more now than to disappear, his head hangs low, his chin touching his chest as he ignores the other man in the room. He wants him to disappear too, he wants his attacker out of his space and as far away from him as he can be.

There are no departing words this evening, if there are, Sherlock doesn’t hear them, Sherlock doesn’t hear anything other than the blood rushing through his veins and the whimpers that escape his lips.

 

* * *

 

It hadn’t taken more than three hours before Mycroft’s team to find the mobile that Tim had used to contact his employer and it had made its way to Mycroft’s office to be thoroughly examined. His team scouring through the records and the numbers on his phone for anything that could be used to fine Moran. The messages had been erased from the memory, making the task more difficult. However Mycroft’s people were the best in the country, the world maybe and Greg was trusting them to find the number, a location, anything based on what they had.

The Detective Inspector had been dozing off in the chair as Mycroft sat at his desk filling out papers, most likely giving orders to destroy any information on the man named Tim Werner, when Mycroft’s phone vibrated against the desk causing both men to jump. The politician snatching it up from the wooden surface.

“What is it?”

“They found him.”


	21. Finding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Contains dark thoughts

The entire building was alive with activity that is reminded Greg of an ant hill that had just been splashed with water from a garden hose. Agents were going from place to place, trying to assemble a team, cars, weapons, emergency equipment, anything they would need for when they reached the compound. The air was charged with tension as everyone moved about, voices loud and carrying as he stood by the door to look out in the hall, Mycroft behind him at his desk making calls to various places, a few of them Lestrade assumed were Clinics that would be willing to let them use their facilities for such a sensitive matter without selling the details to make a quick buck.

The sound of the phone being set back down on the receiver made the Detective inspector turn around and look at the politician, who was beginning to look as tired as he felt for the most part.

“I am going to need you on standby at the clinic.” Mycroft said after a few minutes. “That is the only terms that they agreed to, someone has to be there waiting for us.”

Greg looked at him incredulously “Send your assistant then, because for your information I have every intention of going with you.”

“Detective In—“

“No, Mycroft, don’t even start.” Greg cut him off, it wasn’t the best move he ever made, especially since he knew what the oldest Holmes could do, but this had to be said. “I care about Sherlock as much as you do. I want him home as much as you do and I sure as hell want to be there when you bring him home.”

Mycroft regard him with an emotionless mask, Greg worrying that he crossed the line by refusing to follow the request. But it was true, he wanted to be there when they pulled Sherlock from his prison, He had known the kid for most of his career as a detective and he loved Sherlock like he was his own.

The most powerful man in the British Government picked up his mobile, glaring at Greg as his fingers went to work on typing out a message.

“There should be an extra bullet proof vest in your size waiting for us when we get downstairs.” Mycroft replied as he stood as he pocketed his mobile before grabbing his coat from where it a laid behind his chair, pulling it on as he walked past Greg.

Everything was ready by the time they reached the garage, the men in their gear stood by, guns in hand, a few of them were off to the side next to an ambulance where the medical supplies were most likely waiting. On top of the Mercedes was a bullet proof jacket that Mycroft tossed at Greg before tucking something that couldn’t be seen into the inner pocket to his coat.

“Remember to use extreme caution.” Mycroft stated as his eyes looked to each member of their crew. “This is a very sensitive mission, we have no idea what the state of the compound is, or it’s security. Remember that they will have no problem using Sherlock as a shield when you fire, so only fire when necessary” They all nodded as Greg slipped the vest on, his eyes focusing on nowhere unparticular, his thoughts on Sherlock and the state they would discover him in.

They slipped into the car as everyone was loaded up, silence falling between them as Mycroft gave the driver the address and GPS Coordinates. It was a place on the outskirts of the city, presumed to be empty. They were the first car to pull out, everyone else following as they sped down the streets.

 

* * *

 

Moran frowned as he looked down at his phone, the message on the screen rather clear. He had known it would have only been a matter of time before anyone had discovered Sherlock had been missing, though he had hoped it wouldn’t have been this soon. Quickly and quietly he stood from his desk, pulling out the last drawer on the bottom, his hand reaching in to grasp his old service revolver. It was only a matter of time before the rescue party arrive, and he was determined there would be nothing for them to rescue.

Slipping the gun into the waist band of his pants, he began to make his way down stairs to the room he had left Sherlock in, disappointment in his chest, but a smile on his face as he went.

 

* * *

 

“I can imagine someone has tipped him off by now” Greg muttered as he turned away from the window and looked towards Mycroft. “His people have to be everywhere in this city, they would have noticed.”

Mycroft was silent for a moment more before he turned and looked at his companion. “I am very certain he knows that we are coming, we just have to be earlier then he expects us to be”

“We are gambling with his life!”

“That is if he isn’t already dead”

Silence filled the cab once more as Greg looked out the window, his heart pounding and his palms sweaty as he grew slightly nauseous at the thought Sherlock might already be dead, again, only this time he wouldn’t be coming back.

The building was in sight and it was nothing to take notice to, so it was obvious why it was chosen. It was nothing to look at and easy to look over and it was the last place anyone would think of.

The Mercedes came to a halt twenty feet from the entrance, the other vehicles with the agents spreading out around them, unloading themselves, waiting for the signal as Mycroft and Greg stepped out of their own vehicle. Weapons were drawn as they inched closer to the door and once the signal was given they all rushed in.

* * *

 

He wanted it to end, all of it, Sherlock couldn’t handle this anymore, the pain in his body was unbearable, his skin was uncomfortable and tight with dried blood. He felt tainted and weak and didn’t want anyone with in a three foot radius of him. He gasped as he tried to move his body to lessen the pain but it was no use, everything hurt and he wanted it to stop.

The detective flinched as the door opened, the door opening meant pain and he didn’t want to be hurt anymore, He didn’t even let Moran close the door completely before he spoke.

“Just kill me… please” Sherlock’s voice rasped out as he looked at Moran with through his long dirty fringe. The great detective was tired as was his abused body, he had been missing months, enduring unspeakable amounts of abuse, holding on to the hope that Mycroft  would find him even if no one was looking for him. However, he couldn’t hold out any longer, not like this. Moran smirked as he reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s face by his jaw causing him to physically recoil from the touch.

“Do I hear begging?” He laughed as he leaned in as Sherlock leaned away as much as the grasp on his face and the chains that held his body in place allowed. His pupils dialiating in fear as his breathing increased as memories of the last time he had seen Moran floated to the surface of his mind.

“P-Please… J-Just kill me.” Sherlock whispered once more as he closed his dull grey-blue eyes fighting the tears that were threatening to fall. “I-I just want it all to st-stop” He all but sobbed as Moran let go of his face. Sounds of Men running above them floating vaguely through the crack in the door, but Sherlock couldn’t hear them or if he did, he was placing the blame on the fantasy of being rescued.

What he did hear was the sound of the Sig that Moran had carried down with him slide from the waist band of his trousers. Sherlock hung his head as he heard the safety click off, his eyes squeezed shut tightly as the sound of men grew closer. This was it, this was how the Great Sherlock Holmes was going to die, cold, naked, and alone, just like he knew he always would. It was a fate Sherlock had accepted hours ago, before Moran had come down stairs, No one was looking for him, not even those he thought would

The sound of men grew louder and Moran looked towards the door as it squeaked open, the Sniper kept his gun trained on Sherlock, the smile still plastered on his face

“I am afraid you are a little late”

Seconds later the sound of a gun going off filled the air an silence rang through the halls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woops, another cliffhanger, but I promise it isn't like it seems


	22. Safe at last

Silence rang through the halls as the smoke from the gun powder cleared out of the confined space, settling onto the ground and the body that lay there. A sob broke the silence as Mycroft stepped into the room, stepping over the body of Sebastian Moran, who now laid warm and dead on the floor, blood surrounding his head in a gruesome halo. However, none of that mattered as the oldest Holmes laid his eyes on the state of his little brother.

Sherlock’s thin body was trembling violently causing the chains to rattle, his hair was once again long and greasy covering his down cast face. His chest was heaving from the silent cries he was trying to contain as his body gave in, allowing him to sag to his knees to the best of his ability as the chains cut into his already raw wrists.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft asked softly, his gloved hand reaching out to cup the side of his face so he could get a better look at him.

“D-Don’t touch me!” Sherlock hissed through his teeth as he looked up, his face streaked with tears, his once vibrant eyes dull. Mycroft held his hands up in surrender as Sherlock looked him over, trying to decide if he was indeed the real Mycroft Holmes and not some figment of his imagination. Mycroft taking the moment to categorize the wounds that covered Sherlock’s body.

The welts caused by the whip were slowly fading, but the lacerations left by the leather were raised and angry and would most likely scar if they didn’t get him treatment. His skin was malted with bruises at different stages of healing, signaling how long he had really been held captive, but the ones on his hip were darker than the rest. The dry blood that painted Sherlock’s legs told his brother all he needed to know.

“My?” Sherlock’s voice cracked and Mycroft looked up at his face once more. “Mycroft…” Conflict danced over the younger man’s face. “Y-you can’t be Mycroft, he said no one was looking for me.”

“Sherlock, we have been looking for you, I promise you that.” He said “We’ve been looking for you and now we are going to take you home.”

Sherlock couldn’t believe that it was really Mycroft standing in front of him, it couldn’t be could it? His brother had saved him before, but no one knew he was gone, how did they find him? It had to be a trick of his mind, it was what he wanted. But he was supposed to be dead, Moran was going to shoot him, if he was dead then he wouldn’t be there then, right?

The sounds from the hallway began again, agents clearing the halls and open doors, ready to take anyone else in the compound who was working for Moran into custody. The sound finally meeting Sherlock’s ears as he took another look at Mycroft. This was real then. They had found him, this wasn’t some hallucination trying to provide him with some comfort.

“My… get these off of me.” He mumbled, his body sagging further as Mycroft turned slightly to dig for the key from Moran’s pocket. He slipped off his coat as he stood, draping it over Sherlock the best that he could.

“I am going to have to touch you to keep you from falling.” Mycroft stated as he moved closer. “I promise, I won’t hurt you, you’re safe now.” He tried to reassure him. Sherlock’s body tensed as he wrapped his arm around his waist as he stuck the key into the lock, the cuff releasing, falling to the ground as he did the same to the second one, Sherlock collapsing against him.

Sherlock whimpered as his body came into contact with his brother’s,the fabric of his suit as welcome to his body as the touch. He closed his eyes, his body tense as Mycroft pulled the coat around him as much as he could.

“Lestrade!” Mycroft bellowed as he tried to keep Sherlock from sagging to the floor. “Lestrade I need the medics”

“N-No…No one else.” Sherlock mumbled against him, his eyes half closed as he tried to relax. Mycroft was there. Mycroft meant he was safe, and now he was trying to stay up right, to support himself so all of his weight didn’t fall on his brother, but it was failing. His body had taken all that it could handle and it was on the verge of shutting down, but he couldn’t let that happen. Not yet. Not until he knew no one other than Mycroft was going to be inside his space.

“Sherlock…”

“Please, No one else.” He responded as someone appeared in the doorway. “No one else.”

Mycroft turned to look at Greg and the medics, he moved out his hand to stop them. “He doesn’t want anyone else.” However Greg was not looking at them exactly, he was looking at the body on the floor before turning his attention to the brothers a few feet away.

“Christ…” Greg muttered as he stepped into the room, his hand out to stop the medics from following him, an orange shock blanket in his hands. He stood arm’s length away, a sharp pain in his chest as he saw Sherlock. The younger man turning away from him as best as he could as Mycroft grabbed the blanket and draped it around Sherlock.

Sherlock was trying to stay awake to the best of his ability, but he couldn’t anymore, his body was shutting down like it had when he was saved from Serbia. And just like before Mycroft was there, Mycroft had him, Mycroft said he was safe. He allowed his eyes to close completely, allowing the darkness of unconsciousness to claim him.

Mycroft could feel Sherlock relax as he fell unconscious and he didn’t take a second thought before gently scooping his brother up into his arms. Sherlock’s head lolled against Mycroft’s shoulder as he carried him to the gurney. This, this had been the easy part in his mind, finding Sherlock, releasing him from his chains, now came the hard part. Now came the healing process from all of this. The physical wounds would heal, they would scar like the ones from Serbia had, he just didn’t know if he and Greg would be enough to get Sherlock through the hard parts that were waiting for them.


	23. waking

He was fading in and out of consciousness, things coming in and out of focus, lights, people, voices, sirens blaring, someone was holding his hand, there was weight on his body, and  there was some type pressure on his face around his nose and mouth. It vaguely registered in his mind that weight on his body and the pressure on his face meant bad things, painful things, but he couldn’t bring his arms to move, nothing was moving except his eyelids as he fought against the darkness.

* * *

 

Then there was the stream of lights speeding away above him, bright, blurry, and white. Shapes and shadows moved above him, blocking out the lights, the sounds had given way to garble and white noise. The hold on his hand was gone, but the pressure on his body and face remained. Sherlock could feel the others touching him, it was unwanted, unwelcome, but he couldn’t find his voice to tell them to stop, his limbs were too heavy to move as they should and it hurt to breathe. . Everything came to a halt and then things were moving, he was moving, lifted up from one surface and placed down on another. His head lolling to the side, his half open eyes catching a glimpse of someone, a familiar someone. His fingers twitched as he attempted to move his hand and reach out. “M-My...” coming out across his lips in a faint whisper before things went dark once more.

* * *

 

Beeping met his ears first as his senses were overwhelmed with the scent of anti-septic as he woke. The light burned his eyes as he opened them, causing Sherlock to groan out in discomfort as he shut them with again. Something shuffled to his right as someone stood, and the sound of the lights switching off met his ears.

“Better?” The person asked, the voice was familiar, one he would always recognize. He turned his head in the direction of Mycroft’s voice and slowly opened his eyes once more, blinking a few times to clear his vision. Sherlock nodded minutely, his eyes inspecting the room slowly, taking in the fact he was no longer being held against his will, that he was no longer subject to Moran’s abuse.

The room was plain and white, done in standard hospital style: white walls, pale tiled floor, Venetian blinds to keep out the light, there was no privacy curtain meaning it was a private room, most likely requested by his brother. His attention snapped back to Mycroft as he moved from the switch near the door to the table besides his bed, his eyes watched as his brother poured a small measure of water into the cup provided.

The water was more of a gel, most likely mixed with something to thicken it up so he wouldn’t choke on it, it was unpleasant both in taste and texture however at the same time it was welcome to ease the dryness in his mouth and throat. Once the cup was placed back on the table and Mycroft retook his place in the chair, Sherlock looked up at the various IV bags that hung from the pole to the side of his bed. He looked at them for a moment, before looking back at Mycroft silently asking for a prognosis.

Mycroft sighed as he leaned back into the hard plastic chair, crossing his legs, he looked older then Sherlock had seen him, and that had to be his fault, after all he had gone off and gotten himself captured.

“Whatever self-depreciating thoughts you are thinking, stop.” Mycroft spoke, his voice low, gentle, different, it was certainly out of character for the British government to use that sort of tone, even with him. “None of this was your fault Sherlock, please do know that.” Sherlock closed his eyes and turned away from him slightly. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear, he wanted to know the damage that had been done to his transport, his body.

Mycroft sighed and shifted in slight annoyance, as if he thought that reassuring words would do something that they usually hadn’t in the past.

“They didn’t think you would make it.” Mycroft began, his voice still carrying that tone. “They said that from the moment they wheeled you into their emergency room. Severe dehydration, mal nutrition, cracked ribs, infected lacerations… internal tearing. As you saw they are pumping you full of various liquids. The large clear bag is saline to rehydrate you, the second large bag with the yellow fluid is nutritional support, designed to help bring up your weight and provide essential nutrients that most likely have been lost. Connected to the pumps on the Pole are the rapid course of antibiotics to clear up the infection and morphine to help manage your pain.”

Sherlock nodded again, his eyes now examining what he could see of himself: his wrists were bandaged in white gauze as was his chest and back, he shifted slightly to feel the stiffness and weight on his back and the pain in regions of his body he didn’t want to think of.

“How long?” He managed to ask, his voice coming out in a cracked rasp that sounded like a piece of wood being sanded.

“Were you gone?”

A nod

“Our best guess in nearly a month and a half, you had been gone a month when Gregory discovered you had been missing and then it took a few days to go through our _source’s_ Information to find you.”

Moran had been wrong, someone had been looking for him, two someone’s. Greg hadn’t forgotten about him, but if Greg had gone looking for him did that mean his name had been cleared? Then who was their source? Had they had someone who worked with Moran? The heart monitor began to beep louder as Sherlock’s chest began to rise and fall rapidly, he didn’t even realize he had begun to hyperventilate until Mycroft had placed his hand on the bed. Sherlock turning to see him, the room spinning slightly at the quick movement

“It’s alright Sherlock, just breathe normally, No one associated with that _Man_ will ever be around you again, that I can promise you. I will do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

Safe, Safe was good, safe was what John use to keep him, but now that was what Mycroft would do. There was no way John would want him back, his friend had made it perfectly clear how he felt about Sherlock the day he had made himself known. So if he didn’t want him back then, what would make John come back now? In Sherlock’s opinion, nothing.


	24. Night Watch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't particularly like the way this chapter came out, but I hope you do. Also I want to give huge thank you to all of you who are reading this story. Thank You

They sat in silence, only the sound of beeping filling the air as Mycroft stared ahead while Greg looked through a case file. They had taken to watching over Sherlock as he slept in case something, anything, went wrong.

“I should have kept a better watch over him.” Mycroft voice breaking the silence. “If I did that, if I made sure he wasn’t alone. This wouldn’t have happened.”

“You don’t know that” Greg supplied as he looked up from the file “This still would have happened.”

“We would have known sooner” The politician stated, the _Then I wouldn’t have to have heard my little brother beg for death’_ went unspoken. That was something Mycroft never wanted to hear again, the desperation, the brokenness in his brother’s voice, in all their years. It was something he had only heard one and he wanted to ensure it was the first and last time it happened.

Greg closed the file, and plopped it on the floor with a soft thud as he shifted until he body was angled towards Mycroft.

“He’s safe now Mycroft.” The DI stated “We can’t linger on what would have happened, all we can do is focus on helping him heal.”

Silence filled the air and Mycroft only nodded as he folded his hands on his lap and Greg shifted his weight.

“I never knew you could shoot like that, right between the eyes.” Greg stated after a moment, Mycroft turning his head slightly, looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

“It was too clean, too quick for what that monster did to him.”

“What would have happened if you didn’t though?”

“Do you really need to ask that question?”

 

* * *

 

_“No one is looking for you.” Moran sneered as he held Sherlock’s face in between his hands. He was too close, but Sherlock couldn’t pull away, his body being held into place by chains that were digging into his wrist, pain slowly spreading through his body. There was that predatory glint in the sniper’s eyes as he leaned in, his hands slowly drifting down Sherlock’s neck, chest, and sides._

_“Stop...” Sherlock breathed, the other man close enough to hear him say it, the touch making his skin crawl._

_“Please…Don’t” His voice was higher this time, the fingers digging into his hips, his body tensing as the man laughed at him._

_“To think they couldn’t get you make a sound in Serbia, and here I am making you beg.”_

The beeping from the heart monitor increased and Sherlock began to thrash around trying to escape the invisible binds that were holding him down. A mantra of “Stop, Please, don’t” spilling across his lips as his heart rate and blood pressure skyrocketed on the screen. Mycroft stood quickly, clearing the distance to Sherlock’s bed in a few strides.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft called. “Sherlock wake up, you’re having a nightmare.” However, Sherlock didn’t wake, not at first, whimpers escaping his lips as Greg stood, positioning himself between the bed and the door, getting ready in case a nurse was required.

“Sherlock, It’s Mycroft, please wake up, you’re safe, You’re safe, I’ve got you.” The words came out a bit louder this time, the elder holmes cautiously reaching out to touch Sherlock’s shoulder as he bolted upright. His eyes wide and fear full as he looked around, assessing his surroundings, his head swiveling from left to right, his chest heaving as his eyes fell om Greg before looking up at Mycroft who stood a few inches from the bed now. In an instant, Sherlock crumpled. Collapsing back against the mattress, a hiss escaping his lips before his chest heaved and a sob followed.

The touch to his shoulder, had startled him to wake, bolting up, Sherlock had no idea where he was at first until his eyes found Lestrade and then his brother. The fear and anxiety had that been flooding his body came to a crashing halt. Mycroft was there, Mycroft meant he was safe. He fell back against the mattress, his fear and anxiety giving away to something else, as his shoulders trembled slightly.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice was low again as he moved to sit on the edge of his bed, his hands to himself. The detective didn’t move as he tried to calm himself, but it wasn’t working, his chest ached, his heart monitor was still beeping at a rapidly and Mycroft’s eyes flashed upwards to look at it before looking back at Sherlock who now had tears collecting in his eyes. Mycroft extended his hand, making a silent offering. He was the only person Sherlock allowed to touch him at the compound so this was worth a try.

Sherlock looked from his brother’s offered hand to his brother himself waiting a few moments before he pushed himself up slowly, taking Mycroft’s warm hand into his own as the politician moved closer. Sherlock buried himself as much as he could into Mycroft’s arms.

“You’re safe, brother mine” Mycroft reassured him and Sherlock nodded as he tried to get his breathing to match the steady rise and fall of the one he leaned against. It had been years since they had been like this, Mycroft holding him after a terrible dream. His hands grasping the fabric of Mycroft’s clothing like it was a life line and that was exactly what it had become.

“Gregory, get a nurse please, someone needs to come and make sure none of the IV’s were pulled out and none of the stitches were pulled.” Mycroft requested, his eyes watched the beats per minute slowly decrease as Sherlock calmed down, the younger man now placing more of his weight on his older sibling.

“You won’t let them hurt me will you?”  Sherlock asked as the door closed behind Greg as he went to find a nurse. “I don’t want to hurt anymore.”

“I am not going to let them hurt you Sherlock, No one is going to hurt you in that way again.”


	25. Reconsider

It was the last thing John expected when he opened up his front door and found Anthea on the other side. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Mycroft’s assistant, but her visits were a signal something wasn’t good. She didn’t give him any time to ask what she was doing there, instead she pulled out a rather large yellow envelope and held it out for him to take.

“Mr. Holmes requested this to be dropped off.” She said briskly as she gave the envelope a shake so he would take it. “He said you knew what you had to do when you made up your mind. Have a Good Evening Doctor Watson.” He didn’t say anything as she walked away, instead he just stood there in shock. What would Mycroft want with him? The last time he had seen Mycroft was a few weeks back, when they had come to ask about Sherlock before arresting Tim.

He would have been lying if he said his mind hadn’t wandered to his friend, well he was his friend. John sighed as he closed the door and carried the envelope and tossed it on the coffee table before making his way to the kitchen, pulling the scotch from the cupboard, pouring himself a measure. He debated opening the envelope, what would he hurt by waiting until Mycroft showed up at is door himself. But there was something nagging at the back of his mind, telling him he should open it. _Maybe it’s about Sherlock_ his mind supplied as he finished his drink.

The doctor stared at the envelope on the coffee table for a while before he reached over and grabbed it, pinching the tabs together before pulling back the flap. John reached inside, his fingers grasping its contents. He pulled out a letter and thicker piece of paper, newspaper. He laid the letter down beside him, unfolding the paper to see Sherlock staring back at him.

SHERLOCK HOLMES TO BE VINDICATED AND CLEARED OF ALL CHARGES.

_After a long and extensive investigation into the famous detective following the incident that lead to his death two years ago, Sherlock Holmes is to be vindicated and cleared of all charges that were brought against him following his suspected involvement in the kidnapping of the Prime Minister’s Children…_

John stared at the first paragraph of the paper for a while, the headline being burned into his memory, the date was a day before Greg and Mycroft had come to see him, so maybe that was the article that made them realize he was missing, maybe someone had gone to tell Sherlock his name was clear, but he wasn’t to be found. How he had failed to see this was beyond him, but it wasn’t impossible.

Next he picked up the letter, uncertain what he would find.

_Doctor Watson,_

_I suppose that it is only proper that I inform you that we have located Sherlock and he is now safe. If you wish to know any more information, please contact me, there is a business card inside the envelope as well._

_M. Holmes  
                                                _

John looked at the letter, the last sentence not sitting well with him, then again anything that required contacting the control center of the British Government was never good, especially when it concerned Sherlock. He didn’t even realize what he was doing until he had his mobile in one hand the business card in the other, his fingers dial the number.

* * *

 

Mycroft was seated behind his desk, the work he needed to catch up on piled on his desk, though he wasn’t occupying himself with foreign elections, he was searching through the papers they had found in Moran’s hide out. He needed to figure out who was a part of the London web, he needed those people who were affiliated with Moriarty and Moran off the streets, they were threats to the safety to the country and that was what he would tell who had had to answer to, even if this was personally motivated. He checked his watch, he still had a few hours before he was to relieve Greg from his duty at the Hospital. They had taken to watching Sherlock in shifts to make sure someone he knew was always there, Greg watching him during the day because that seemed to be the time he was most as ease, and Mycroft would take the night shift to be there to aid his brother after having the nightmares.

He had sent Anthea to drop off an envelope to John as she ran a few more errands for him. There was a plenty of damage that Moran had caused that needed to be fixing, that included the relationships that had been ruined as Moran alienated Sherlock from his support. The question was not if, but when John would call.

Mycroft had sorted through the files that had been collected, he had stacked them into smaller piled to be handed out to teams to be apprehended, the last one, a girl named Adeline Richardson, was placed off to the side. He would deal with her himself, possible have Greg help him arrest her. However she would have to wait until they had someone else they trusted to keep Sherlock company. He had just turned closed the laptop and locked the door to his office when his mobile rang. Mycroft smirked to himself as he saw the name on his screen. He wasted no time answering the call, it taking less time than he had thought.

“Hello Doctor Watson, what can I possibly do for you?”

 

* * *

 

“Tell me again why you can’t have one of your people pick him up?” Greg huffed as he looked at Mycroft as they stood outside of Sherlock’s hospital room.

“He will have questions that you know the answers to Gregory, this is important, a mutual friend instead of a stranger will have more of an impact.” Mycroft answered. “This is damage control, You and I can’t do this alone, John is an important person and he is going to need him especially when news gets out that Sherlock is still alive. He is going to need all the help he can get to heal from this, like you said”


	26. John

Greg Stared down at his watched as he waited outside of car, leaning against the cold metal body. It was an hour before ‘shift change’ and he was waiting for the guest that would join him. The night previous Mycroft had requested he pick up John Watson and bring him with him and he was doing what was asked of him. He had no idea what to expect from the doctor, of course there would be questions on both sides. He would want to know what changed in John’s opinion of Sherlock and John would want to what happened to the detective, those questions Greg would answer to the best of his ability until Mycroft could answer them all in better detail later.

The Detective Inspector shifted his weight in the cold air, digging in his pockets for the stiff paper container before pulling out the slightly crumpled cigarette pack, tapping the top against his gloved hand before finally pulling one from the pack. He held the cylinder in between his lips as he pulled out his lighter, pressing the button as he cupped his hand around the end of his smoke as he was about to light it.

“I thought you didn’t smoke?” John’s voice sounded, it wasn’t warm and inviting, but it wasn’t cold and distant either. it was more of that tone that people had with acquaintances when you had entered awkward conversation territory.

“I stopped a few weeks before we met, picked it back up a few years ago.” His voice was muffled as he spoke as he pocketed the lighter before pulling the cigarette from his lips, sticking it back in the pack for later. He had stopped smoking, sticking to patches for much of the time he had known John, but a few months after Sherlock’s funeral, the patches were doing it anymore for whatever reason he failed to acknowledge, and he had broken down and bought a pack. He had been smoking a pack a week since.

* * *

 

John gave him a look and a quick nod silently telling him that he knew, he understood what caused him to pick it up once more. The silence that followed was charged and awkward, but he tried to ignore as he shoved the pack into his coat pocket.

“Right, let’s get going then yeah?” He asked as he looked at the doctor before opening the driver’s door, sliding in.  He still wasn’t sure what was to be gained from this, from him picking up John and taking him in, but he was certain he would find out soon of course.

This was the last thing John had been expecting after the phone call with Mycroft the night before. The phone call with the British Government had been short and to the point that was more with him listening to Mycroft’s words than anything else.

_“I was wondering how long it would take you to call, Doctor Watson, I had not expected it to be so soon of course, not after the last time we spoke.” Mycroft’s voice was brisk and professional, though it wasn’t like he had expected anything else from the man. “There are matters that need to be discussed about the present situation, I am indisposed at the moment but someone will be there to pick you up around seven in the morning, please do be ready, time is of the essence”_

The line had gone dead after that and John was left to shove the envelope into his nightstand drawer where it couldn’t be seen. He had gone to bed shortly after that, and had woken early, got up and shuffled around the flat as quietly as he could, watching the time pass by before he headed out the door to the waiting car. He had expected a Mercedes with a nameless, faceless driver, but what he got when he stepped out the door was none other than The detective Inspector leaning against his car getting ready to light up a smoke.

Now he was slipping into the passenger seat getting ready to take off to wherever they were supposed to be headed. They sat in silence as Greg pulled away from the curb and headed down the road. He was uncertain where to start and this felt uncomfortable enough as it was.

“Did you know he was alive?” John finally asked breaking the silence that had fallen over them.

“All this time? No. Mycroft might, but I only found out when he showed up around my crime scene.” The officer answered “But he must have had a reason to do what he did though.”

“You haven’t talked to him about it then?”

Greg sighed as he gave John a sideways glance

“There hasn’t been time to talk him.” Discussing what had happened during Sherlock’s time away with the man himself was the farthest thing from his mind, he was more focused on making sure Sherlock was resting and as comfortable as he could be after what had been done to him.

“What do you mean you haven’t talked to him yet?” John asked “I thought you said you found him.”

“We did find him, but that doesn’t mean he’s in the condition to talk.” Lestrade nearly snapped. “If you wanted to know then maybe you should have asked him yourself instead of telling him to get lost.”

John went silent, bowing his head slight as he looked out the windshield. He should have known that that comment was coming, thought he had expected it from Mycroft. It wasn’t like it wasn’t true, however, he had the chance to talk to Sherlock, and what had he done? He had shoved him to the ground before telling him to get lost. But that was the least important thing on his mind, the words Greg had said first were echoing in his head. He should have known Sherlock was hurt, the man had a disregard for his own safety, but this wasn’t like that, he knew it.

Greg stayed silent as he pulled into the hospital parking lot, pulling into the space closest to the visitor’s entrance. The car was in park and the engine was off as he ran his hands over his face.

“You’ll understand in a few minutes.” He said as he opened the door and stepped out of the car, closing the door, he didn’t wait to see if the doctor was following him as he entered the hospital. Just because they had found Sherlock didn’t mean he hadn’t been harmed in some way shape or form. The unrealistic expectations that people seemed to have for Sherlock got under his skin, sometimes he just thought they saw the younger as something less than human, that didn’t get harmed and knew everything. But Greg knew that was far from the truth, he had seen Sherlock hurt and he had seen him stumped and confused, he knew who Sherlock was even if he never let the younger detective know it.

John joined him in the elevator, the silence broken by the horrible music that was being played, that was played in most of them. Lestrade paid no attention to the way the doctor shifted next to him, instead he wondered how many nightmares Sherlock had endured and whether or not he had fallen asleep leaning against his brother.

The lift doors opened as they reached their floor, Greg stepping out and John following, their footsteps echoing in the hall in the early morning. The path had been etched into Lestrade’s mind he was certain he could walk this in his sleep.

Mycroft was out in the hall waiting for them, leaning against the wall next to the door of Sherlock’s room.

“How is he?”

“Just fell asleep, IV fluids, bandages, and bed sheets have all be changed so he should be alright until I come back later.” Mycroft stated as he looked up at Greg as the other man nodded before ducking into the room leaving him with John.

“Ahh, Doctor Watson, you and I have a few things to discuss.” Mycroft remarked

“I want to see him.”

“All in due time, Doctor.”

John shifted as he looked at the older Holmes, Mycroft’s gaze unyielding.

“Short Version is that Sherlock is in Serious to critical condition after being kidnapped by what is hopefully the last part of Moriarty’s criminal web, the details of his capture and imprisonment are for him to disclose when he is ready.” Mycroft began. “Under different circumstances you may have been privileged to know the basic details, but things have changed and after believing the lies that your neighbor told you, and the way you treated him, I find it with in my grounds to withhold such sensitive information.”

John opened his mouth to argue before shutting it, there was no point in arguing or even trying to, Mycroft didn’t tally him up to much but he doubted The British Government was tallying anyone up to much at the moment.

“Can I at least see him?”

“In the near future, when he is fit enough to receive visitors”

“So you brought me here for nothing?”

“I brought you hear to have a short discussion with you.”

“I am not going until I see him.”

“Doctor Watson...” Mycroft warned as John moved to step into the doorway of the hospital room. But that was as far as he got as his eyes fell on Sherlock, his heart stopping at the sight of the younger man. That couldn’t be Sherlock, that couldn’t be him.


	27. The Cost

John had seen many men that had taken bullets, flying schrapnel, that had been covered in blood and bruises from war, but he expected that on the hot sand of Afghanistan, However, he had never imagined Sherlock in any situation like that, even when they were close. Of course he had wanted Sherlock to hurt like he had, the aching chest that came with heart break and to be overwhelmed with the guilt that he had hurt John… but he never wanted this to happen, to anyone. Sherlock had always been thin for as long as they had known each other, but not to the point he could see his ribs, his pale skin that could be seen was no longer pale and untouched but now was malted with bruises in various degrees of healing. Both of his wrists and his chest were wrapped and he was certain he could see the edges of the bandages used on his back sticking to Sherlock’s sides.

There was no way that that could be the man he had becomes friends with, the one that had lied to him for some reason or another, that couldn’t be the man he had shoved to the ground and told to get lost because he didn’t want to see his face. But no matter how much John tried to tell himself that, he knew he was wrong, that the man that was in the hospital bed, connected to so many IV’s was most in fact Sherlock Holmes. It was the man he had adored and lived with for so many months. He shook his head as he took a step backwards, grabbing the door jamb to stop himself from falling over.  So many things hitting him at once : Denial, shock, surprise, anger. But there was nothing that he could do, He ignored the look Greg was giving him, the slight shake of his head as if he could read the actions on his face.

“Sherlock.” The word came across his lips louder then he intended Greg’s eyes widened slightly as he looked towards the form on the bed, the heart beat on the monitor increasing slightly as Sherlock shifted, his eyes opening slightly, his face was shrouded in drowsiness, until his eyes fell upon John. The beeping grew louder and John’s brow creased as he looked from Greg to Sherlock.

He had been managing as best as he could with the monsters hiding in his sleep and the painful reminders while he was awake, but Mycroft and Greg were making it bearable. His brother held him after the nightmares telling him he was safe and Greg talked to him quietly as he looked over the case reports. For once he was alright with them looking over him, keeping him safe, especially since Mycroft watched over him during the nights, and that was when his monster came to take him. He had spent most of the previous night awake, leaning against Mycroft, his hands clutching the fabric of his brother’s suit as he reassured him that the nightmare was just that.  The nurses had decided while Mycroft had him in a calm state that they would change his bandages and the sheets he had been laying on, and it was a welcome change, no longer uncomfortable and he had found it easier to fall asleep.

He hadn’t been asleep for very long before he heard someone call his name, he startled awake. The voice was familiar and not something he would hear ever utter his name again, he had to be dreaming. John had made it pretty clear that he didn’t want to see him again, it had to be a trick of his mind, his eyes scanned the room before falling on the figure in the doorway. No, it couldn’t be John, John wouldn’t come to see him would he? Moran had taken John away from him with lies and John had believed them. He shook his head, his hands grasping the sheets as he tried to calm himself.

“Sherlock… You need to breath, calm down, please.” John said as he took a step into the room, but it wasn’t helping, John wasn’t supposed to see him like this: beaten, battered, _tainted._

“G-Go” Sherlock stuttered as he looked at the man that once ran the streets of London with. “Go, you aren’t supposed to be here, you can’t see me like this.”

“Sherlock Please…”John pleaded as Greg stood, Sherlock shaking his head. John couldn’t see him like this, John already thought less of him for something he had no control over what would he think of him now? What would he think of him if he knew he had been using when he was kidnapped? What would he think of him if he knew what Moran had done to him?

“John, I think it would be best if you came back later.” Greg stated as he stepped in between Sherlock and John. “Like tomorrow, two days from now, how about I call you when it would be a good time to come, but please, this isn’t helping him, just, please.”

John looked from Greg to Sherlock who now had his eyes closed, his chest heaving and he nodded before slowly turning, something crashing down on him as he retreated from the room, a mixture of emotions and feelings, the one that weight on his most was guilt. How would things have been if he had listened to Sherlock instead of shoving him away? The doctor shoved his hands in his pockets as he made his way down the corridor, he paid no attention to whether or no Mycroft was still there, instead he focused on the what if’s.

As soon as John had turned his back to them, Greg was at Sherlock’s side, keeping a small distance between them as he talked to the younger man, reassuring him that everything was fine, he was fine, as long as he breathed, slowly, deeply. Sherlock nodded as he tried.

He heard John leave, but he couldn’t get his heart to stop racing or stop the tightness in his chest. Sherlock could hear Greg and he reached out with his hand, his hand grasping the Detective’s wrist, he could feel Greg’s pulse under his fingers, slow and steady. The muscles under his fingers twitched before a warmth wrapped around his own bandaged wrist gently. He told himself that the Silver haired man wouldn’t hurt him even if he expected the grasp around his injured wrist to tighten and cause some discomfort, nothing happened.

“I’m sorry.” The curly haired man mumbled as he finally opened his eyes, the grasp he had on the DI’s arm loosened as his breathing slowed as did his heart rate.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Kid.”

“Is he gone?”

“Yeah, probably down in the street by now.”

“He wasn’t supposed to see.”

“He wasn’t supposed to see what?”

“Me.”

“Sherlock…” Greg’s voice was warning and weary as he spoke, but Sherlock shook his head

“He wasn’t supposed to see me like this, I’m a mess…a broken, bloody, tainted mess and he wasn’t supposed to see… what is he going to think?”

Greg closed his eyes for a moment before opening them, the words hitting him hard, the implications behind them made him feel ill, his condition had not been fully disclosed to him, but he had his ideas as to what had occurred and they had been off handedly confirmed, but that was something to dwell on later.

“I think he won’t think any differently of you, he may even take a step back and take another look at his behavior regarding you, but I don’t think he will see you any differently.”

“That’s because he already does, he hates me.”

* * *

 

_“Save it, I don’t want to hear any fantastic stories of why you are here or how you got here Sherlock. I have more important things to do right now and you are just in the way.” John said coolly as he finally moved over the threshold and closed the door behind him with a snap before pushing past Sherlock. The detective stood there staring at the door, his heart felt as if someone had ripped it out. Sliced it into tiny pieces before shoving it back into his chest cavity. It hurt to breath, his world was tilting slightly and his knees were growing weak. He turned and followed John to the curb, he at least wanted an explanation for this, this change in attitude towards him._

_The detective gingerly placed his hand on John’s shoulder as the man signaled for a cab, seconds later, it became apparent that was the wrong move. John was facing him and the doctors hands were pressed firmly against his chest, if he could feel the bandages that were holding him together Sherlock didn’t know, but all he did know was John had shoved him and he went stumbling backward, then the pavement was rushing up to catch his back. Pain rippled through his body as it impacted the concrete, his teeth sinking into his lips as he tried not to scream out as he felt the stitches give way, lights exploded behind his eyes and he couldn’t breathe. It hurt, it was like being whipped for the first time all over again. All Sherlock could do is look up at John as he panted trying to regain his breath._

_“Don’t. Touch. Me.” John growled through gritted teeth and all Sherlock could do was hold his hands up in surrender as he tried to breath, as he tried not to let the tears run down his face. He looked up at the man who was looming over him, John’s hand clenched into fists as Sherlock scrambled to his feet as quickly as his back would allow, his hands still up in front of him as he took a few steps back. He was certain his face was unreadable, but it was hard to tell as he felt something slowly cracking inside him, like thin ice when it is stepped on in just the right spot…_

_“J-Jo-“ He began before he was cut off._

_“Get lost Holmes” John cut stated before his name had been fully formed on Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock stared at John for a moment “I said get lost, or do you need me to spell it out for you?”_

John was replaying that night over in his head as he walked down the street, hands in his pockets as he went along. He could have taken a cab but he needed to breathe, think, clear his head. He had never imagined that seeing him would cause that sort of reaction, but he could see how it would now. He hadn’t given Sherlock anything except a cold brush up and bruises. There wasn’t that connection anymore, that one where Sherlock was perfectly fine with John seeing him battered and bloody, it was all lost, all because he had listened to what Tim had said instead of trying to decide for himself. He had wanted to defer blame and he did and the question now was, what had it cost him?


	28. helpless

Sherlock glared at the nurse who stood in front of him. “I don’t need your help.”  He stated but didn’t move to grasp the handles of the walker or the IV pole. They were trying to get him to walk or attempt to. He needed Physical Therapy before they would even consider discharging him. And he was getting tired of being in the hospital, of being poked and prodded and handled like glass. He took a deep breath before he reached out, his hands wrapping around the rubber grips of the walker, it seemed like a long shot to start with walking, he could hardly hold his body up with Mycroft’s support the day he had been rescued, but they were giving him a benefit of the doubt he supposed. He moved forward until his feet touched the cold titled floor, causing him to shiver.

He looked up to Greg as he pushed himself to his feet, his legs wobbled precariously as they took on his weight. The younger man focused on keeping himself upright as he tried to move forward, feet shuffling as he went, however, he wasn’t more than a few steps away from his bed before he felt them give way and he was going down.

He yelped as someone’s arms wrapped around his waist and his body tensed at the contact, squirming to get free from the grasp, but before he could order the person to release him, Greg spoke.

“Get a wheelchair.” He felt the man’s chest vibrate against his back and closed his eyes, of course it would have been the older man to catch him. He wouldn’t be afraid of being hit if Sherlock lashed out at the unwanted contact. How he had missed him moving from where he stood was beyond him, but he would rather have his friend catch him than any of the anonymous faces that worked around the facility. He stopped squirming, but he didn’t relax, his eyes following the nurse as she left the room before he spoke.

“I’m sorry.” It came out soft and bearly audible, but it was there

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Greg’s chest rumbled against his back as he spoke again. But it didn’t feel that way to Sherlock, he couldn’t even keep his body upright and to him that was pathetic.

“I can’t even walk.” Sherlock replied as the nurse returned with the wheelchair. “He took that too…” he closed his eyes for a moment as he felt the older detective sigh.

“I’ll get him placed in the chair, just lock the wheels.” Greg told the nurse who nodded. “Alright Sherlock, I am going to move you back and place you in the wheel chair.”  He allowed his body to move with Greg’s, His feet scrambling as he tried to gain some bearing and not slip and further then he already had.

Sherlock was maneuvered into the chair, wincing at the hard nature of the fabric that it was constructed from.

“You okay?”

“Fine.” Sherlock said through gritted teeth, his face flushing slightly with embarrassment at the fact he actually needed help with this, Silently he cursed his limbs for not cooperating with him, 

The foot rests were placed down and he placed his feet on top of them as the wheels were unlocked. The nurse transferring his IV bags to the pole connected to the chair before she began to wheel him to therapy. Sherlock stared down at his hands as he was pushed to somewhere else in the hospital, they were easier to look at then the passing faces of the staff and their looks of pity. Besides him, Greg kept in step with the motion of the wheels, he even held the door open for them to enter. Sherlock didn’t see why he had to leave his room for this, why couldn’t they just do that in his room?

He huffed as they moved him towards some of the equipment but they didn’t have him move.

“We are just going to start my stretching..”

“We could have done this back in the room”

“Sherlock…”

The younger man looked at the older detective and sighed. He leaned back against the leather back of the wheel chair, his body tensing as the nurse grabbed his leg gently and began to flex his leg. It wasn’t the most comfortable feeling in the universe, but it was certainly better than laying in the bed. The nurse was having him push against her as he stretched out his leg as is to simulate walking. It made his muscles burn and ache but he didn’t complain. It was bad enough he had collapsed, the last thing he wanted was to see like this was too much for him, like he was weak and helpless, that was the last thing he wanted.

The real discomfort came when they decided to work on his arms and shoulders, the tissue was still tender from being stretched out and from supporting most of his weight. He gasped as he moved his shoulder like they wanted him too, the muscle burning and feeling tight not soon afterwards. It was a good two hours before Sherlock found himself being wheeled back to his room, again he stared down at his hands to avoid seeing the looks on the other’s faces and the fact he was sore wasn’t helping the way he was feeling. He flat out refused to allow the nurse to help him out of the wheel chair, insisting he could go it himself and he nearly did if his hand had not slipped from the mattress. Once again Greg was there to help him up, the silver haired man staying silent as he aided Sherlock, his face blank as Sherlock settled back into the bed and the nurse left.

“I hate it.”Sherlock mumbled as Greg took a seat in the hard chair

“Hate what?”

“I hate being so helpless, I can’t even walk a few feet from this damn bed without my knees giving way. It’s pathetic, I am pathetic.” He muttered as he moved down the mattress trying not to make a face of discomfort. “I hate hospitals and I don’t want to be here anymore, I want to be home or what’s left of it. Gra- Greg I hate it here. I have too many unpleasant memories of hospitals, the second to last time I was in one they wanted to lock me away…”

“Sherlock we won’t let that happen.”

“You weren’t supposed to let them take me either.” Sherlock’s voice dropped and Greg looked at him, stared actually. He regretted saying it the moment it crossed his lips, but he had been a bit on edge since John had been by a few days before. He was angry and agitated at his state and none of this was helping. “This wasn’t supposed to have happened… he wasn’t supposed to get his hands on me… but look at what he did to me, Just Look!” A sob escaped Sherlock’s lips as he brought his hands to his face as he brought his knees to his chest as best as he could.

The case file hit the floor with a loud snap as he felt the bed dip as someone set on the edge, it was Greg, he told himself and Greg was safe. His back ached as he leaned against the older man, trying not to seem desperate as the tears burned his eyes. However it wasn’t long until he was hidden at the officer’s side trying to calm down, his chest heaving as he tried to hold back the tears as he fought back the memories of Moran, the hands, the chains, the whip. He kept telling himself that he was safe and that Moran didn’t take anything from him. But that didn’t matter anymore, not when the words tainted, dirty, used, popped into his head.

Greg made reassuring sounds, one arm wrapped gently around his shoulders, it wasn’t that tight or that confining of an embrace, just something to assure Sherlock that he was indeed there.

“It’s alright Sherlock.” He whispered, “It’s alright, it may not see like it now, but it will. You are safe as long as Mycroft and I are around, you are safe”


	29. Homeward bound

“I want to be out of here” Sherlock voiced once more as the nurse came in with the wheel chair once more, they had made physical therapy a daily thing and while Sherlock appreciate the fact his legs could support him better than they had, he didn’t want to be confined anymore. He had been there way too long, longer than he planned. He just wanted to move on with his life and forget what had happened, and he wasn’t going to be able to do that if he had to spend another week in the hospital.

“We need to make sure you can walk Mr. Holmes.” The nurse replied as she placed the wheel chair close to the bed so he could get into it.

“I can walk, I have been walking for the last few days!” Sherlock sounded exasperated as he spoke, his eyes looking over the nurse, that look of determination on his face, the one he got before he began to spit out deductions that had on more than one occasion, but one look from Greg made him shut his lips.

“Mr. Holmes, please just cooperate with us.” She sighed as she looked to Greg for some help, the officer shrugging.

“Don’t look at me, he isn’t going to get any easier to work with, especially since he doesn’t want to be here. He can be very stubborn and he really doesn’t have a problem with making life difficult.” Greg stated as he looked at Sherlock, who was not amused. He could related to the younger man, he had never been a fan of hospitals himself, but he unlike Sherlock had not spent most of his younger years in and out of them. Sherlock’s reasons for not liking hospitals was reasonable from what he remembered from what Mycroft had told him all those years before. Sherlock had spent a decent amount of time recovering from accidental and intended overdoses before going to rehab, and the staff had been less than kind to him.

The nurse sighed as she looked from Greg to Sherlock before looking back at the officer. “If you can get him to Physical therapy I’ll contact his doctors to see what they say, if he is lucky then he can possibly go home.” Sherlock’s face lit up at her statement, the happiest he had looked since being brought in. the officer nodded, Greg moved towards Sherlock, but the man being as zealous as he was, was already up on his feet, using the side of the bed as a support. The nurse huffed in frustration as she left and Greg shook his head.

“I want to be out of here by any means necessary.” Sherlock said as he grabbed onto his friend’s arm. He had gotten more comfortable with the senior officer then he was before to the point he was alright with the silver haired man touching him.

“So I’ve noticed.”

“Is it a bad thing?”

“That you want to be out of here? No.”

Sherlock paused for a moment and nodded slowly “Do I really have to go to therapy?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance but nodded anyway, taking a step forward as he tested to make sure that his limbs could support him. He had done rather well with his week in therapy he thought, he had been pushing himself, staying longer just so he could get out faster. He held onto Greg as he walked through the hall, his other hand on the IV Poll, which was now down to only a low dose of morphine and the antibiotics they insisted he take. His nutrition wasn’t up to par, but he had put on a few pounds and could keep the liquid diet he had been put on down well enough.

“Do you think they will let me go home?” he asked as they approached the therapy room.

“I think they will let you go to stop your complaining.” He said as he held open the door, Sherlock entering first, sinking down on to the first piece of equipment there was, Sherlock shot him a withering look before he began to stretch his shoulders, there was still some discomfort, soreness from this movement but he attributed it to the tears in his muscles and his healing ribs.

“They already look at me differently.” He said after a moment, placing his arm back at his side. “They all know.. they all know that I am alive and that I was kidnapped and tortured… and… raped.” It was the first time he had said the word aloud, and it was in the physio room.

“Sherlock, that doesn’t make a difference..”

“Yes it does!” He hissed. “They see me differently, they see me as tainted and weak because I couldn’t defend myself.” He stopped and looked down at his hands.

“Just please see if they can get me home.”

 

“Look Mycroft, he just wants to go home, and I can’t blame him.” Greg sighed as he stood just outside the doorway of the therapy room, his eyes focused on Sherlock and the nurse who was helping him work his legs. The curly haired man gripping onto the chair as if not to show how much the touch bothered him or whatever was discomforting him.

“Have the doctors stated the can leave?” Mycroft spoke, his voice slightly obscured by the sound of typing. “Or has he pushed them to the point they just want him gone?”

“Any longer here and he will have the staff in tears.” There was silence at the other end for a moment.

“Of course, should have known that, his disdain for hospitals and their staff… I’ll see what I can do.”

“Right, what do I tell him?”

“To wait.” The line went dead and Greg sighed as he closed his phone, his attention focused on how well his friend was moving, his body was tense and his face was emotionless but he knew it was just a mask. Once therapy was complete, Greg resumed his role as Sherlock’s support as he made his way back to his hospital room. He moved stiffly his body aching slightly, the grip on his arm was stronger than before, but it didn’t bother the officer as they walked.

“You called Mycrot”

“Yes”

“What did he say?”

“You have to wait” Silence filled the space between them and nothing more was said as they entered his room, Sherlock stopping as he saw the clothes folded on top of his mattress.

“The Doctors have decided with some persuasion, that you can leave.” Greg spotted Mycroft first, standing against the wall, umbrella in hand once more. Sherlock gave his brother a small smile, a thankful one. “The nurse will be in a moment to take out your IV’s and the prescriptions you have are being filled as we speak.”

The brunette let go of Greg’s arm and trudged his way back to the bed, sitting down, his eyes looking over the clothes that were brought: A pair of loose fitting jeans and one of his button ups, the blue stripped one that made him look like he had come from a western.

“What did you say to them?” he asked as he looked at his brother

“That you would be looked after by medical professionals of their caliber in a home setting.”

“Right.”

An hour later found Sherlock buttoning up his shirt as Mycroft was signing the release papers as the nurse wheeled in a wheelchair for the last time they all hoped, this time he didn’t argue, he didn’t complain as he was wheeled out of the room and into the elevator. There was a car waiting for them, no doubt going to take them back to Mycroft’s flat, but anywhere was better than the hospital and anything was better than feeling helpless.


	30. Discussions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nightmare summary at the beginning of the chapter may be triggering  
> Also I hope this was Mycrofty enough, if it wasn't I promise there will be more of him in the future

_His faceless, nameless captor stared into his face as he yanked on his hair, the grip he had was painful, especially as the man twisted his hand into the long matted curls. A sound escaped Sherlock’s lips_

_“This could all be put to an end if you just tell us why you are here.” He hissed into Sherlock’s face “You could sleep then, if you remember what that is.” However Sherlock stayed silent, staring defiantly at the man who was attempting to rip out his hair, or at least that is what it felt like. The man sneered as he released him, shoving him back slightly, the chains digging into his wrists as his shoulders took his weight. The Serbian reached for the pipe that had been laying off to the side, he swung the pipe, the metal slapping against his palm before coking his arm back before taking a swing. The pipe hitting his side, pain exploding through his side._

_The man was laughing, but he was no longer the Serbian who had been pulling his hair and the pipe was no longer in sight, instead the hand were on his body, fingers running down his sides his body tensing as Moran leaned in and breathed into his ear.  
“You have always been a very pretty man, Mr. Holmes.” Sherlock closed his eyes as he felt the heat from the other’s body before the cold air wrapped around his now nude body. The hands moving over his body as Moran walked around him._

_“P-please... Don’t... please.” Sherlock begged before he screamed._

He bolted upright, the scream dying in his throat, his chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, his body coated in a cold sweat. His shoulders ached as did his wrists, chest, and lower back, but he attributed it to the nightmare and not the actual injures themselves.

Footsteps echoed in the hall, growing closer to his room, his body tensing as the door opened, the light flicking on to reveal Mycroft standing in the doorway dressed in his pajamas. Sherlock looked at his brother, telling himself he was safe, he was safe because his brother was there. Mycroft would protect him, he had. He was the one who had killed him. Sherlock pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them as Mycroft approached the bed.

“Sorry for waking you.” Sherlock mumbled as Mycroft sank down onto the mattress.

“You didn’t wake me.” The older man replied and Sherlock nodded, the curly haired man closing his eyes as his brother placed his hand on his knee, reassuring him that he was indeed there and that he was safe. If Sherlock knew that Mycroft had been lying, then he didn’t let on, instead he reached out for Mycroft’s hand, his own wrapping around his wrist so he could feel the pulse under his hand to prove he was safe. No one knew where he was, he was in Mycroft’s flat, in his spare bedroom. He would be there for a few days or until he got tired of company or until Mycroft got tired of him or until Mycroft’s people cleaned Baker Street for him, but until then he was content to just be there.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had no idea that he had actually fallen asleep until the light shined into his face through the curtains. He slowly opened his eyes to take in the guest room in the day light. He tried to remember when he had fallen asleep, but he couldn’t think of an exact time that he had drifted off, but he figured out it was in between silently counting Mycroft’s post and Mycroft telling him that he was safe. He sat up and threw his legs over the side of the bed, the carpet was plush under his feet and a nice welcome change to the cold tile he had been walking on in the hospital.

He used the wall to brace himself as he made his way down to Mycroft’s kitchen, he could hear his brother’s voice. He was on the phone and by the tone, he was talking to their parent’s, their mother more specifically. Most likely trying to reassure her that everything was alright, even if they weren’t.

“Yes, mother, I assure you Sherlock is just fine, taking time to get back into the swing of things.” Mycroft sighed as Sherlock appeared in the doorway. A faint smile on his lips at the exasperated look on his brother’s face, but he said nothing as Mycroft rolls his eyes.

“Yes Mother, I will give him your love.” Mycroft shook his head and hung up the phone and placed it on the table.

“How’s mother?” Sherlock asked as he eased himself into the chair across from his brother.

“Fine, worried as always.” He nodded as he clasped his hands in front of him, leaning in slightly. “They want to come and visit, to see you.”

“What did you tell them?” Sherlock asked as he looked down at the table.

“I would ask you first.” Mycroft replied

“And if I don’t want to see them?”

“When she calls back I will think of something to tell them.”

“Tell them, tell them what? That their youngest son isn’t made of glass but he sure as hell feels like it?” He asked “And he doesn’t want to see them because seeing them means they would want to touch him and the idea of people touching him makes him nauseous because some… monster hurt him in some unspeakable manner?”

Mycroft looked at his brother, his expression changing from one of annoyance to a softer one, one Sherlock hadn’t seen since they were younger, way younger, like when Redbeard was still alive and he was bullied constantly for being different.

“Do you think that I would tell mother anything about your condition? About what happened to you?” He asked. “While she is our mother and I have disclosed information on your condition before, that was when you were younger, and in and out of the hospital and rehab because of your habit. This is different Sherlock, and this is something I would never share with her.”

“Do I actually have to tell them anything about the last few months?” He asked quietly.

“No, you don’t have to tell our parents anything, however, you do need to tell John.”

“Why would I tell John? John doesn’t care about me.”

“John was manipulated into believing lies about you to make you more vulnerable to being taken, if John didn’t care about you then he wouldn’t have showed up at the hospital and while he isn’t my favorite person, he does deserve the truth, he need to be told the truth to see how wrong the lie was.”

“He will think less of me.”

“Would you think less of him if the situation was reversed?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then why should this be different?”

“Because I am Sherlock Holmes and these things don’t happen to me.”

“Just because you are Sherlock Holmes, doesn’t mean bad things can’t happen to you.”


	31. Start from the Beginning

He couldn’t stand to look at himself, but he couldn’t bear to look away either, his once flawless skin was now marked, painted with  raised bright pink lines that crossed his back, side, and portions on his stomach and chest. They would scar most definitely, but he hoped that they would be nothing more than discolored skin and not like ones that were given to him in Serbia. But he doubted that he would be that lucky. The remaining skin was painted a ghastly yellow and pale green, the colors were the remainders of the bruises and he would be fairly happy when they were gone, especially the ones that were pained across his hips that served as a reminder of what he wanted to forget. But at least they were no longer causing him any major discomfort, Sherlock thought as he pulled on his green dress shirt, hiding the marks on his body as he did up the buttons. The detective pulled his eyes away from the mirror as he tucked his shirt into his trousers before pulling on his suit jacket. He looked perfectly normal, as normal as he had ever looked, even if he felt different, off.

He felt like he was a freak now more than he ever was before, but he would never voice that, just like he would never tell his parents what had happened during his two years abroad and weeks after he had come back. He didn’t think he could handle them treating him like he was a fragile piece of glass that was already cracked, even if that was how he felt most days in between the nightmares and the physical reminders. Mycroft knew. Greg Knew, and if he had enough courage to speak, John would know the vague details after the discussion today.

Sherlock turned to grab his belstaff off of the bed he had been sleeping in and pulled it on, his scarf was somewhere, the person that Mycroft had sent to Baker Street most likely forgot it, not that it mattered now. He shrugged into the coat, adjusting the collar before heading down the hall. They were going back to Baker Street, well he was at least, whether he would stay there was a different story, but he wanted a more familiar, more comfortable setting for this encounter. He had given in and told his brother to have Greg call John. Why? He had no idea honestly. No matter what Mycroft said to him he still thought the doctor would see him differently as most society did tend to look at victims, male victims especially, through a different lens to justify the attacker’s actions.

Mycroft was waiting out by the Mercedes, dressed in a three piece suit as always, his mobile in his hand as he tapped away at the keys. His brow creased with concentration as he looked at the screen before looking up at his brother.

“Ready then?” He asked as Sherlock pulled open the car door.

“As I will ever be.” The brunette replied before slipping inside the vehicle, the door slamming as Mycroft followed suit.

* * *

 

John had nearly given up hope that they would contact him about seeing Sherlock again, but after the last encounter he couldn’t blame them. So it came as a surprise when his mobile rang and the LED screen read Incoming Call from: Greg. He had never snatched his phone up so quickly.

_“I know I said I would call earlier, but you know how things can get.” Greg had said. “But things are straightened out as much as they can be, and Sherlock agreed to see you”_

_“Right then, so should I just get a cab and take it to the hospital?”_

_“He was released from there a few days ago actually, he suggested Baker Street. Safer than an open space for him at the moment.”_

John hadn’t made a comment on Greg’s last sentence instead he just made a sound in his throat that indicated he was listening. When the call had ended, John could feel the tight uneasiness in his chest. This would be the first real encounter that they would have that would last more than five minutes in years, and he had no idea what to expect, thought he would allow Sherlock to explain what really happened the day that he had jumped, he would allow Sherlock to explain everything. He owed him that much, he probably owed him more. The night moved slowly as John braced himself for the encounter, which he as starting to suspect was more stressful than proposing to Mary had been.

He got little sleep and was up earlier than he should have been, the anxiety that filled his chest was making him nauseous and the overwhelming urge to vomit was consuming him as the time to leave approached. At 9 am he was out the door and by 9:05 he was flagging down a cab to take him to Baker Street. Back to the place that had saved his life all those years ago, back to the space that was occupied by the man who had saved his life.

The drive seemed slow, but they were going the limit and traffic was light, it was just his nerves and the guilt and everything else that made it seem longer. The Mercedes was already parked out front when the cab pulled up. John paying the man as he got out, his eyes taking in the sight of the door, the building in general. He was standing in the same place he had been the day they had looked at the flat. Gradually John made his way up the steps, pushing open the door to find nearly everything the same, except the door to Mrs. Hudon’s flat was padlocked and the paintings that were on the walls were gone. Sherlock was living there alone.

Voices carried down from upstairs, and John took each step as slow as he could so he could hear the conversation and get an idea of what he was walking into, but the sound was muffled, feverish, as if they were trying to finish a discussion before he made it to the top landing. With that, the steps were taken at a normal pace, the voices dying as they heard his footsteps. John’s heart was pounding against his chest like a caged animal as he knocked on the wall next to the door, even if it was ajar.

“It’s open.” Sherlock said as he opened the door, the flat was illuminated with as much light as John had ever seen it. The curtains were thrown wide and the lamp in the corner was on, but he assumed so much light was streaming in was due to the fact the windows were clean, the whole place was clean in fact, he was surprised Sherlock wasn’t screaming about how they had removed the dust. Mycroft was sitting in the chair that had been his and Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, hands clasped behind his back. Now this was the Sherlock Holmes he knew, the one who was emotionally cut off and dressed in a suit, but there was something different about him. It could have been the fact he was so thin, or the fact that John’s mind was now associating both images with Sherlock.

“Greg said you wanted to talk to me.” John said and Sherlock nodded, his back stiff and John wondered why he just didn’t call him himself, but he would ask that later.

“I do, we do” Sherlock replied as he looked back at Mycroft, “If you would take a seat on the sofa, it would be best if you sat down of course, don’t need you passing out and hitting the floor.” Sherlock was nervous, John could tell by the way he was moving back and forth on his heels now and his eyes flicked towards Mycroft.

“Just start explaining” John stated as he looked at Sherlock once more, his rocking stilled and he looked at the ground before looking at Mycroft. “Where do I begin?”

“The beginning would be a good place to start”


	32. Realizations

As Sherlock saw the taxi pull up to the curb, he wanted to back out, he didn’t want to tell John anything. He had turned to Mycroft, telling his brother telling him to cancel the meeting but he refused and the moment that they heard John’s footsteps on the stairs, it was set in Stone. Sherlock’s heart was in his throat as John walked into the flat. And now here they were, Sherlock shifting uncomfortably as he tried to find the words to begin. Where did he begin with this? from the moment of the call or from the moment he stepped on the roof top? The real question was, would John believe him when he was done?

“The roof top didn’t go as I thought it would have.” Sherlock began, his voice raspy before clearing his throat. “I thought that if I confronted Moriarty about the Keycode that if I held the fact I knew about it over his head, then things would have turned out differently, but he had his own plan of course. The code was just a ploy, something for me to go off of, it didn’t really exist, it was just a way to play me, ruin me.”

John’s jaw was set and his hands were clenched at his side, but this was where he was starting. John had to know why he jumped, who he jumped for, he owed him that much didn’t he?

“Everything else was just an inside Job, the crown jewels, Pentonville, the Bank. But the real reason we were there, was to finish the story he had started and it was to end there…”

“End how?”

“End the way he wanted it end, I was to jump, to end my life to finish the image of a ruined detective who had is life torn away from him.” Sherlock said as he looked  at John. “It was his plan for me to kill myself… He had a plan in action in order to ensure I went through with it. He had assigned men to.. certain people.”

“What are you saying? That Moriarty was threatening to kill people you knew if you didn’t kill yourself?” John asked as he took a step towards the couch as Sherlock nodded. “Who were these people?” The venom in John’s voice was evident and the detective looked back at Mycroft who inclined his head, slightly.

“Mrs. Husdon, Lestrade… and You.” Sherlock’s voice wavered as he looked back at the doctor, the look on his face was one of shock, surprise, as if he had no idea he was that important to Sherlock, but after what he had been told by Tim that look shouldn’t have been as unexpecting as it was.

“You jumped for us.” John clarified as he looked at Sherlock the astonishment still on his face, Sherlock shot Mycroft a sideways glance as he shifted his weight once more, the tense posture he was trying to maintain made his body ache and he was slightly worried his legs would give out on him.

“Surprised? Does it really come as a shock that I am not a machine after all? That I am capable of actual emotions or was it just easier to pretend I didn’t know how to feel?” Sherlock asked as he looked at John. “I told you that I didn’t have friends, I just had one and that was you. Greg is more like an older sibling or a parent and Mrs. Hudson was like my mother, do you think that I would just let him kill them and You? Do you have any idea what this has cost me?”

John went silent, it was his turn to advert his gaze. He hadn’t taken the time to think about what all of this had caused Sherlock. He had been so focused on making the other man hurt and miserable to make up for the pain he had been caused, he had overlooked that maybe there was something that Sherlock was losing.

“Of course not, people tend to think about the things painful situations cost them and not what it has cost others.” Sherlock charged on for a moment. “It cost two years of my life, both of those were spent taking down Moriarty’s web, It cost me my life because according to the official records I am still very much dead. Not to mention the fact I lost my friends, my credibility, my career….” Sherlock’s voice died in his throat but his mind charged on _It cost me everything I was._ The detective knew that he wouldn’t be the same, he had been different after being rescued from Serbia, he felt different after being saved from Moran.

“Sherlock..”

“How did they convince you I was a fraud?” Sherlock asked ignoring the fact his name had be said as he looked at John. “How did they turn you against me?”

Was he crossing a line? Most likely, he hadn’t allowed John to ask any question, frankly he didn’t want to answer anything other the general ones, nothing too in detail, nothing that he could let slip about how he was. But he had to know how they had taken John from him, how they had turned the man who swore to Sherlock he wouldn’t tell anyone that he was a fraud, was?

John shifted slightly, finally looking up at Sherlock, ignoring Mycroft’s now interested look, he was certain that the older Holmes wanted to hear this conversation.

“It was a few month after I moved into the place I am at now this man moved in across the way, saying he was trying to get his life together and such. He said he was a recovering addict trying to get his life straightened out, and it wasn’t long until you were brought into the conversation.” John took a deep breath. “He said that he knew you… and you had been using while we were sharing the flat…and that you had been high when you jumped, that you didn’t care about how your actions affected anyone else…”

“Did you really think so little of me?” Sherlock asked his voice wavered and his legs felt like they were giving way, he didn’t even feel himself go down until hands were grabbing his arms and his face was inches away from John’s.

“Don’t touch me.” Sherlock spat as he shoved himself away from John, falling to the floor, scooting back quickly. His heart was beating quickly as he stopped moving, his heart racing as he scolded himself for looking so weak. He closed his eyes as he tried to gain some composure, his head bowed slightly.

“Don’t” he heard Mycroft say, he didn’t look up to see the looks shared between his brother and the doctor, and that was most likely for the best as there was a look of realization that dawned on John’s face.

“Who hurt him?” John asked, his voice was low, cold, and deadly. Sherlock looked up at the doctor quickly. The blonde was standing in front of Mycroft.

“You don’t need to worry about that Doctor Watson, I can assure you that they were taking care of long ago, the same day we removed him from the compound. You saw the after math of that the day at the hospital.”

Mycroft had taken this over, damage control. Sherlock had no idea how much John had figured out, but the man was a Doctor, one that had worked trauma and surgeries. His heart was beating faster than before as he waited for the attention to be brought back to him.

“I assume the rest of the people that had a hand in this have been arrested?”

“As of yet No.”

“No!?”

“An operation of that sorts requires my full attention, and the fact I would be bringing in Detective Inspector Lestrade as well, who would be looking over Sherlock to make sure he remained safe?”

“Give me the details and I will make sure my schedule is clear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't particularly like this chapter, but I hope you like it.


	33. You Matter

“I don’t need a babysitter” Sherlock hissed at Mycroft as he laid on the couch, his back towards his brother. “No one knows I am alive, I don’t need to be mollycoddled!” They had been arguing over the last hour over what time Mycroft should inform John to go and look after him while they began to round up the hundred plus London Members of Moriarty’s web.

“This is not negotiable Sherlock.” Mycroft stated. “The agents will most likely begin to inform the others the moment the moment begins, they are most likely already on edge after Moran’s demise, I doubt most of them have much to lose and there is nothing stopping them from coming after you if they wished.”

“They don’t know where to find me.” Sherlock retorted as he shifted on the couch, it was stiff from the fact it had sat unused for so long, but his body was warming the leather to the point he could feel it start to sink around him like it used to. “I don’t need anyone here.”

“Sherlock…please.”

“I don’t need a baby sitter! I am not weak!”

The room went silent and Sherlock closed his eyes, refusing to turn around to see the look on Mycroft’s face.

“I am not insinuating that you are weak Sherlock, I know for certain that you are not.” Mycroft spoke, his voice no longer loud and harsh but softer with that edge that always got his attention. “You have proved may times over that you are not weak, but I am not insisting that someone look after you because I think you are, I am insisting that someone looks after you because I don’t want to lose you again.”

How in the hell was he supposed to reply to that? Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes for a moment before gingerly rolling over to look at the man standing a few feet from him. His eyes searching Mycroft’s face for a moment before sitting up.

“Fine, call him. He can sit in here and watch Telly or write his blog or do his work.” He muttered as he stood, walking over the coffee table and into the Kitchen. “I’ll be in my bedroom with the door open so he can look in every few minute as he searches the cupboards to search for the tea that I don’t have.”

He could hear Mycroft dig into his pocket for his mobile as he walked into his bedroom, flopping ungracefully face first on to the mattress as he heard his brother speak. He would have preferred to be alone and not to have someone look after him, he wanted to prove to himself he was just as strong as he was, even if he didn’t feel like it. He just wanted to go back to being who he was, even if that was impossible.

 

He figured he must have dozed off as he was startled by the sound of someone coming up the stairs.

“Ah, Doctor Watson, Thank you for arriving so quickly.” Mycroft’s voice carried through the kitchen as Sherlock maneuvered his body slightly so he was no longer directly on his chest. “As you can imagine we would like to get his process underway. Sherlock is in his room, and when we have everyone rounded up and either Gregory or I will call you when everything is done.” Sherlock could hear the strained smile on Mycroft’s lips as he spoke. But that was currently a given, he wasn’t too pleased with John, Sherlock wasn’t either, hence the reason he had come to hide in his bedroom.

This had all been easier to swallow the previous day, however that could have been because for some time they had no longer been focusing solely on Sherlock and the fact Mycroft was there certainly made it easier. Now this was different, this was just the two of them in the same space they had live together for two years. They no longer knew each other, they had become strangers with separate lives, one more off the record than the other. And he didn’t know if he could really do this. Though if he could do it or not didn’t matter as he heard Mycroft exit the flat, his umbrella hitting the railing with a thud with every step. A few moments after that, the door closed and silence washed over the flat.

 

* * *

 

John stood in the middle of the sitting room looking around as he held his hands behind his back, his eyes dancing over the mantel, the desk, the book shelf. Everything still screamed Sherlock, but there was a difference now, a difference in the feel of the air and the general atmosphere of the flat. It was odd and unsettling, but not as unsettling as the moment Sherlock had shoved himself away from the Doctor, the scream of ‘Don’t Touch Me!” echoed in John’s ears and in his mind. He had been a doctor long enough to know the implications behind that sort of response and while one section of his mind told him that it wasn’t possible, that something that horrible wouldn’t happen to Sherlock, another part told him it was entirely possible. That is was entirely possible for Sherlock to be raped, and that thought was enough to make his blood boil.

 He stepped into the kitchen and traveled down the short hall to peer into Sherlock’s room, the man himself was laying on his side facing the wall, his body tense, too tense for him to actually be asleep, the man nodded to himself before turning slightly to head back into the kitchen, looking through the cupboards for tea, or for something that resembled it.

“If you are looking for tea, there is none.” Sherlock’s voice came from behind him, making him jump before turning to see the other man behind him. “They failed to purchase some when they restocked Baker Street.”

“Restocked?”

“Well it isn’t like a dead man can do his own grocery shopping.” Sherlock replied as he walked toward the sitting room, John watching him as he went.

“I can go and get some at the shop on the corner.”

“If you want Mycroft to skin you alive, then by all means be my guest.” Sherlock called from where he had plopped back down on the couch in his sulking position.

John moved to the doorway, his eyes on Sherlock’s back, the way the dressing gown was pulled snuggly against him as he laid there on the couch.

“What exactly did they do to you?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I don’t know what makes you think I would tell you anything about what happened.”

“Because everyone needs someone to talk to, especially something like that.”

Sherlock swore to himself and told himself that was why he should have stayed in his room, then he wouldn’t have to deal with this, but he knew that this was going to come sooner or later, though he preferred later rather than sooner.”

“It doesn’t matter, not any more, I am alive and they are being arrested.”

“It does Matter.”

“Why?” Sherlock hissed as he turned and looked at John. “Why, does it matter?”

“Because you matter.”


	34. Its a start

Sherlock had this blank look on his face at John’s words, the one that prominently showed he didn’t understand. Did he matter? It didn’t particularly feel like it, but then again he only felt like he mattered when people came to him to solve a case, because that was what he was good at, and that was all people ever remembered him for.

He didn’t reply not right away, how would he reply to something like that? There was the obvious one, sighing loudly and agreeing with John to get him to stop talking to him, then there was the fact he could simply argue the point with the other man until he gave up, which may be slightly more satisfying in the end.

“I don’t matter.” Sherlock voiced as he stared at the cushion, his voice slightly muffled. “I don’t matter, I am not important, I am just here because I am too stubborn to die.” _But not really though, I told Moran he could take my life since he had everything else._

John shifted behind him, the sound of rustling fabric met his ears as he turned to look at the doctor before slowly sitting up. Those words were the last thing that John had expected to hear, but then again he doubted the blond knew how Sherlock actually felt about himself. Everyone thought that just because he was arrogant and cold on the outside meant he had self-confidence through the roof, but it was nothing more than a facade, one that he had to keep up so they didn’t devour him alive.

“That is a lie Sherlock, that is a lie and you know it.” John stated, his voice firm, the same firm one uses with a child when trying to get their point across and they don’t have the time to repeat themselves. “You matter.”

“I don’t matter John.” He repeated himself as he turned and looked at the blonde, slowly sitting up so he wouldn’t have a crook in his neck afterwards.

“Yes, Sherlock you to matter.” John said. “That much is apparent, you have people out there who care about you!”

“Who would care about me? Why would anyone care about me?”

 

“There are plenty of people out there who care about you, there are people out there who love you li-“

 “Someone loves me? You think someone loves me? I can't make anyone love me, I can't make you love me, I can make you hate me, well no some one's already done that for me” Sherlock hissed as he got to his feet, he towered over John like he always had. There was a pain in his chest as the words sunk in. the ones from both himself and John. “There was a point to all of this, all that slander and skewed rumors about me, they knew I was alive and they wanted to get people to hate me, so why on earth would anyone want someone love _me?_ Why would they want me after everything that has been done to me?”

John stared at Sherlock, his eyes searching his face as he tried to think of something to say to the taller man, something that would make this easier, that would stop the look he was seeing on Sherlock’s face, the hurt, the anger, but nothing was coming. What did one say? What could he say?

“Who wouldn’t want you?” John asked as he looked at Sherlock the look changing from anger to confusion. “Sure you aren’t the easiest person to get on with, but no one is expecting easy. As for what has happened to you, why would that stop anyone from loving you or caring about you? Yes there are things that have to be worked on, sure you have scars from where they abused you, but that doesn’t stop you from being you.”

Sherlock’s chest was heaving as he looked down at John’ words escaping him, there wasn’t a good enough rebuttle at the tip of his tongue to give, so instead he shook his head, moving to push past John. A hand gently grabbed his dressing gown sleeve as he passed and he paused, looking at the doctor. His eyes scanning his face as he saw there was something on the tip of his tongue that needed to be said.

“You want to know who would want someone like you.” John asked. “We’ll I’ll tell you. Me. That’s who.”

Everything froze as Sherlock looked at John, his mind unable to comprehend at first, his eyes scanning John’s face rapidly for any signs of deception as his mind tried to process the fact that he had heard the blond correctly. And then all at once, everything just crumpled, he was going down. He hadn’t fainted, he knew that much, more like an overload to his system, but he didn’t hit the floor, instead someone caught him. John had. They were both going down, the soldier easing both of them down slowly until they rested on the floor, John’s arms wrapped around him protectively. But it was too late to protect him wasn’t? He had been brutalized, beaten, violated.

Sherlock’s tense muscles relaxed as he forced himself to breathe deeply, this had all been too much. The emotional rollercoaster, the argument, the way John had treated him, something he wasn’t going to be quick to overlook.

“I don’t know why.” He voiced a few moments later, his voice slightly raspy and he wanted nothing more than to be up on his feet, but he was just so tired now. “I’m marred, tainted.”

“You are not tainted Sherlock.” John replied. “There isn’t always a why when it comes to things like this, before you ask this isn’t some ploy to get you to listen to me either. There are people who care about you, Mycroft and Greg, and Molly and I even though not all of us saw that was happening, that doesn’t make you any less important.”

Sherlock nodded and leaned slightly into John, there was still the feeling of tension in the air and uncertainly between the two of them, but there was also that feeling that one gets when things slowly start to patch up, and if nothing else, this was a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few more chapters to go, this may end up being less than forty but we will see.


	35. coming to an end

The look on Molly’s face when they came into the Morgue to arrest Adeline would be something Greg wouldn’t forget, after all how do you forget that your assistant was arrested for being an accomplice to kidnap and torture of a suspected dead man, but she wasn’t going with him, No. Instead she was at the mercy of the man standing in the doorway behind Greg as he slapped the cuffs on the woman. She was at the mercy of the British Government, and there was no mercy to be found there.

“I didn’t do anything.” She protested as Greg pushed her towards Mycroft’s still form “You can’t do this to me”

“I am not the one who is going to do anything, I am just the one who has the pleasure of arresting you.” He said simply. “He, He is the one that going to do something, you see, Sherlock’s his little brother, and he doesn’t like people who hurt him.” There was this predatory look that flashed across Mycroft’s face that made the woman fight against Greg, but he didn’t relent until Mycroft’s men had taken her from him.

“You have no proof that I was associated with them, you have nothing!” She yelled as they went, Mycroft walking behind her, swinging his umbrella as Greg stood in the doorway and watched.

“Well you see Ms. Richardson, the files that I have you say differently.” Mycroft stated “Now you and I are going to have a discussion and then you are going to end up like Mr. Werner.”

Greg stood there until he watched them vanish into the Service corridor where they wouldn’t be seen as they snuck her out the back down and to wherever Mycroft was going with her.

“What was that about?” Molly asked and Greg turned to look at her, his hands in his pockets.

“She was one of Moriarty’s people, they wanted to turn the people Sherlock had on his side away from him so they could take him without anyone noticing.” Greg stated. “Not that it worked, he still had a few people on his side.” He gave her a slight nod before leaving her to her work, there wasn’t much to say, it wasn’t his place and if Sherlock wanted her to know then he would tell her on his own time. Now Greg was going to go finish up the paper work he had left to do this, and then he was going to go home and have a beer or two to have his own to ease the tension of the last few weeks from his aching muscles.

* * *

 

Mycroft stood emotionless in front of the lab tech they had arrested, he had taken her to the same warehouse that they had taken Tim to. Her fate was to the same as his, after having such an active role in the deception of the network Sherlock had built around himself, but before she went the same way as Tim, he wanted his answers.

“Now, as you know, both Moran and Moriarty are dead, the gig is up, so to say. So why don’t you tell me about your involvement in this operation that they had going?” He asked

“I am not telling you anything.” She hissed at him. “There is nothing to gain by telling you anything.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” He said in a hinting tone, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched her intently. “There is nothing you to lose either, not like they can kill you is it?”

“I am not telling you anything, if you ask me that Freak got what he deserved.”

Mycroft bristled at the word freak and the fact that this woman was referring to him in such a manner.

“And to think I was planning on giving you some leniency. Seems like that is no longer an option.” He said as he turned towards the men standing at the side door and gave a jerk of his head towards the table, signaling that he wanted her taken away. “Not that it matters, you will be given the same punishment as your colleague, Timothy Werner. “

“Oh yeah, and what’s that?” She asked with a smug look on her face as if she had one something, and that was probably what she had thought. He waited until they had gotten her up to her feet and started to head towards the door before speaking.

“Mr. Werner is dead, what can you tell from that?” He asked as he watched her eyes widen before she began to fight against the men but he no longer paid any attention to her as he walked in the opposite direction.

“I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you!” rang out from behind him as if she thought that telling him would save her life.

“They wanted to ruin him, they wanted him out of the way of their plans! Moran lost his mind after Moriarty died, he did it for revenge, he wanted Sherlock Holmes to suffer alone like he had!” She shouted. “Please! Please!”

Mycroft continued to walk until the door behind him slammed shut and he slipped into the back seat of the Mercedes, pulling out his phone as they pulled away, dialing a number and pacing it against his ear.

 

* * *

 

It had taken some time but they had gotten up off the floor, Sherlock unsure what to do with himself at the moment, he looked lost and vulnerable to John, but he didn’t say anything as he guided the detective to the couch for him to lay. Sherlock went down slowly, curling on his side, only now he was facing the room and not the cushions as he closed his eyes. Neither of them spoke as John placed the blanket over the top of his thin body before going to busy himself in the kitchen looking for something that Sherlock could eat. He had placed a pot on the stove for soup when his phone went off in his pocket, answering it immediately.

“Hello?”

“Doctor Watson, I hope that all is going well?”

“Mycroft, yeah things are going good here actually, Sherlock’s laying on the couch.”

“Good to hear that he didn’t stay shut completely up in his room. Most of Moriarty’s London associates have been picked up, the ones who had an active part in getting him alone have already been dealt with, but do keep him safe before I arrive.”

“When will that be?”

“Oh a few more hours, at best. Do give him my regards.” The line went dead and John stood there for a moment before going to peer into the sitting room to make sure that Sherlock was indeed still there. He was, in fact by the looks of it, he was dozing, which John didn’t blame him for, their argument had been emotionally charged and fights like that were emotionally exhausting for a healthy person, he couldn’t think of what it could have been like for someone in his state. John signed as he ran a hand over his face before moving to make sure the door was locked so no one could enter while he was in the kitchen before pausing and leaning over the arm of the couch to place a soft kiss on the top of the sleeping detective’s head before disappearing into the kitchen to make as little noise as possible while he made dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe that this is the second to last chapter, I just wanted to give you all a thank you for staying and reading this story, I should have the last chapter up before the end of the week maybe sooner, depending on me finishing my essay. if you have any questions or comments you can find me [Here](http://savedbyholmes.tumblr.com)


	36. Where it ends

His hand smeared the fog on the mirror, clearing the glass to reveal his reflection, it still wasn’t the sight he wanted to see, but Sherlock could at least bear to stare at his reflection now without feeling such hatred for himself. His hair was wet and slicked back from the shower, waiting to be towel dried, twisted, diffused, and plastered into place with the copious amounts of mousse and hairspray. His body was no longer painted with the ghastly green and sickly yellow of healing bruises, the last reminders of Moran were the pink marks left over to scar. Sherlock gingerly ran his fingers over the marks that ran across his chest and side. Feeling the sensitive raised skin, bringing back the unwanted memories of how he acquired them. But he had no real time to focus on his body and the scars as he grabbed the towel from the rack and began to dry his hair. He had a checkup today, something he had been putting off since he had been released from the hospital. He genuinely wasn’t found of doctors, especially ones that he didn’t know, though this had to happen, if not Mycroft would cart him off to the nearest clinic to have him examined.

He sighed as he tossed the towel over the rack, and began to fix his hair, making sure it fell just right before existing the bathroom, he shivered as the cooler air brushed against his skin, creating goose bumps on his skin, making him want to cover himself even faster. His clothes were warm to the touch from the sun and the warmth was a welcome feeling against his skin. He dressed like he usually did, a dress shirt, today a light blue, and black suit slacks, however he had forgone the suit jacket for his blue dressing gown. The detective busied himself around the flat as he waited, picking up the filed Lestrade had been slipping him (since he had yet to publically announce his return), he stacked the mugs of cold tea into the sink, and even stacking up the papers that Mycroft had brought by.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, violin in his lap giving it the tuning it desperately needed, as he heard the street door open and close before two sets of footsteps echoed off the stairs. His heart began to pound in his chest and he could feel his stomach begin to churn at the thought that the person who was supposed to check him over was just a few steps from his door. His eyes flickered toward the door as Mycroft entered the flat, the older man looking around the room before his eyes settling on Sherlock.

“Good Morning Brother Mine, I hope you are feeling well.” Mycroft Greeted, but Sherlock didn’t answer, instead he just stared at him before looking away. “Mm, upset with me I see, but I hope the doctor I have brought with me, more than makes up for your discomfort.” Sherlock cast a glance towards the door as Mycroft stood aside and John stepped forward. Sherlock’s heart stopped as he looked at his, well what could he call John exactly? Other than John at the moment, he didn’t know where they stood on that plane.

“I thought that having Doctor Watson looking you over would make you more comfortable, seeing that he once cared for you.” Mycroft stated after a moment after Sherlock didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on John, his eyes going over the Solider, noting the way he stood straight backed and tense, his hand clenched at his side, gripping the medical bag in his hand. He could tell that John wasn’t certain about this, and he couldn’t blame him. Why would John want to see his scars and marks anyway? And Sherlock wasn’t certain if he wanted John to see them anyway, while he wasn’t comfortable with a stranger looking him over, a less personal relationship would be better.

“No” Sherlock muttered as he placed the violin in the case near the bottom of his chair before he stood.

“Sherlock…”Mycroft began only to be cut off by John

“Sherlock, whatever you are thinking, stop. Whatever you are thinking I am going to think about you stop, because I can tell you right now that it isn’t true.” John stated causing Sherlock to stare at him before looking away and turning his back to the other men.

“The kitchen table free?” He asked as he walked into the kitchen, showing for a fact he wasn’t going to leave. Sherlock gazed at him from the corner of his eye as he watched John pull the table a little away from the stove and sink before walking back into the sitting room and heading past Mycroft and up the stairs to the linen closet. He could hear the stairs creek as John moved around before coming back down with a sheet to throw over the table, which he was glad had been cleared since he had moved back in.

John cleared his throat as he waited, the curly haired man looking up at him fully, the doctors hands clasped behind his back as he stood next to the covered table, which had been their makeshift surgery table for as long as John had lived there.

“John, you don’t have to do this.”

“I know I don’t. I offered.”

Sherlock stared at him before turning to look at Mycroft who just nodded once

“He did” Mycroft reassured him and Sherlock nodded once before slowly making his way to the table. Draping his dressing gown over the back of the pink arm chair before stepping into the kitchen. The floor was cool against the bottom of his feet but that feeling was short lived as he lifted himself to sit on the edge of table.

The brunette watched as the blonde moved to close the doors to the kitchen to give them some privacy, as if he was trying to save Sherlock some embarrassment from having Mycroft see his body, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t already seen it, after all his brother was the one who had released him from his chains.

“I need you to undo your shirt.” John stated as he opened up his medical bag, fishing out a pair of blue gloves. The detective sighed as he moved to undo the cuffs of his shirt before reluctantly pulling untucking it from his trousers.

“You aren’t going to like what you see.” Sherlock said quietly as he watched his hands undo the buttons.

“I didn’t like what I saw in the hospital, I am sure that this marginally better than that.” John replied as he stood in front of the detective.

“Sherlock, I know you don’t want me to see what they did to you, but I promise that I will never think less of you.” He said as he looked at Sherlock’s face, but the man wasn’t looking at him, and he wasn’t moving to undo the last three buttons on his shirt.

“You say that now.”

John moved to finish the task, but Sherlock gripped his wrist gently and looked up at him, searching his face before relinquishing the grip and allowing John to finish the removal of his shirt.

Sherlock felt vulnerable as he slipped out of the fabric and folded it sit behind him on the table, he looked down at the ground as he felt John’s eyes on his chest and stomach. Then he watched as John reached out, his gloved fingers brushing against the scars left by the whip that had been used on him. John’s fingers were warm against his skin even through the latex barrier, and it was different, it wasn’t welcome but it wasn’t unwelcome either.

He kept his eyes on the hands as they slid up to his ribs, making his body tense under John’s hands, which John noticed immediately and pulled away. Sherlock shifted slightly as tension and discomfort filled the air.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s not you. It’s just… Moran…” Sherlock couldn’t finish his sentence, but John knew, he didn’t have to hear Sherlock say it.

There was something that flashed across John’s face as the words sunk in: Anger and hatred crossed his face, but Sherlock knew that they weren’t directed at him, they were directed towards the man that had hurt him.  

John snapped off his gloves and took a step forward, his hands gently cupping his face, the smell of the latex and the powdered that is used to dust the inside of the gloves to prevent them from sticking. His touch was gentle as he lifted Sherlock’s head so their eyes would meet. But Sherlock couldn’t meet his eyes, not while his where burning with tears that were starting to well up at the fact he couldn’t push away the memories that were just below the surface.

He closed his eyes and turned his head, John releasing his face but before Sherlock made another move, arms wrapped around him, the same arms that caught him before he fell to the floor. His face was pressed into John’s shoulders as the doctor pulled him securely to his chest, lips pressed to his forehead.

He breathed in deeply, smelling John’s cologne, detergent, and body wash, all the same brand he had used while living at Baker Street, the smell was familiar and soothing, as were the arms around him. His hands grasped the thick material of John’s jumper as he listened to John’s breathing, calming himself before he pulled away.

Sherlock reached behind him and grabbed his shirt, pulling it on and buttoning it, looking down at his hands in the process.

“We can get through this Sherlock.” John stated

“We?”

“Yes, We.”

“You’re going to help me.”

“Yes”

“Why?”

“Because you do that for the people you love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we have finally reached the end of this story, thank you all for reading it and reaching this point, it means so much to me <3


	37. Notes

There is a sequel now in progress, and you can find it **[here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3542717/chapters/7798412)**


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